It's Called Art for Crying Out Loud!

It's been a while since I've ranted. The truth is, I'm sort of disgusted with the world, and especially the US, right now. It's simply better for me to shut up than try to make sense of myself. Of course, there are those who say that is impossible at any time. Oh well.

Instead, I propose to go back to poetry for this session. I wrote a little thing I call the Biker's Sonnet. For those of you who have read Shakespeare you will recognize the theme. For those of you who slept through their English classes, I have reprised the original Shakespeare Sonnet below, followed by my version.

Here is Shakespeare's:

Sonnet 130

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

And here's mine:

A Biker’s Sonnet: My Old Lady

My old lady sure ain’t no movie star.
She squints from looking into too much sun.
Her boobs sag over a c-section scar.
A sway backed old horse, she’s almost done.
She’s more miles in wrinkles than most got skin.
What hair she’s got is dyed blondish yuck,
It don’t match her complexion: red as sin.
Tummy? Hell, her whole body needs a tuck.
Finger nailed chalkboard sounds like her voice.
Her breath smells of old cigs and stale skunk beer.
Comes down to sense she won’t make the right choice.
But let me tell you what I love in her:
She’s never a bitch; she’s good in the sack;
She’s Mom to my kids; she rides at my back.