SONNET
Even the Appassionata lacks passion
No choirs in force, no bows at venture drawn,
No fugal lines well wove, no trills sustained,
No brass afire, the tympani long gone,
The woods like trees, the podium disdained.
With him as guest all music is de trop,
What once beguiled is now mere memory,
He nags within from doh to doh to doh
Reducing sounds to physiology
But not to silence, he’s well-fuelled with bile,
My airways creak and strive to pass my breath,
My nostrils bubble, custardwise, awhile
I murmur requiems and think on death.
Death at least marked by dignified bass clef,
But, no, the thief that racks me is tone deaf.
NOTE 1. Shakespearean sonnet. Having tried the
Miltonian format once I don't do the funny ones.
NOTE 2. The version that drew the first four comments
(for which much thanks) was a draft written in
feverishness. This version has been significantly
edited - though custard stays.
