Ukrainian poet and legend Taras Shevchenko says DON'T BRING THAT WEAK SCANSION IN HERRRRE, SON. (Photo by Richard Heathcote/Getty Images)
See, that's not really a sonnet. We have standards for our poetry around here. You have to have the right number of lines, which this doesn't, and at least pay some lip service to the rhyme scheme. Say what you like about the volumes of personal verse they sell on the rack at Cracker Barrel: they never claim to be anything formal.
See, these are sonnets. Terrible sonnets, mind you, but sonnets nonetheless. Get your verse right, Arkansas football. DON'T BRING A BUSTED-ASS VILLANELLE TO A SONNET FIGHT.
His mistress's eyes were nothing like the sun
Cerulean blue, those bescandal'd eyes
Of motorcycling skills she had none
Of resume skills, "Compliance (With Thighs)"
Did Bobby a slide through roadside brush take
And turn his face red like Razorback hide
Errors and mistakes did Petrino make
Hiding his Wild Hog's adulterous ride
His playbook a record, its names told truth
Of lies to tell, and fortunes to be lost
The scourge of a defense, of Chavis and Roof,
His favorite play circled: "Shallow Cross"
Now buy his golf clubs at the local Goodwill,
and watch John L. Smith turn this team to swill.
Derek Dooley brought sixteen for the play,
He thought that sixteen would be sufficient.
Yellow flags like birds did fly, and take away
The play Derek Dooley thought efficient.
Atop a hill in Knoxville, Dooley sits.
To watch the film, and weep in the darkness
For once champions, now Tennessee shits
The bed, and leads the league in " pain" and "fartness."
A Bray's for a mule, the Tennessee stud,
And orange is the right color for Hunters,
Yet a Dooley by name and by his blood
Always lives and dies with his punters
If depth chart gremlins do not attack her,
Perhaps his mother can play linebacker.
You're being choked to death by iron hands.
You're on fire underwater and dead.
You are dying of thirst in desert sands.
You're shot in the gut, and on your deathbed.
You're watching paint dry on death row.
You're stabbing your eyes out with sewing pins.
You are watching a glacier crush a doe.
You're watching someone take hammers to shins.
You're watching a pressing like Giles Corey's.
You're seeing an orphan drown in a lake.
You're watching boring snuff film stories.
You're watching erotica made by Drake.
You're watching the most boring death of all:
A team playing Alabama football.
BOOM KILLY BOOM KILLY SABANISH BOOM
A SABANISH TAKE FOR SABANISH TIMES
BOOM KILLY BOOM KILLY RAGE-ANISH DOOM
YELL AND I'LL BOOM AS MY BLOOD PRESSURE CLIMBS
BOOM KILLY SPLAT GOES MY HEAD IN THE HEAT
WHY IN BLUE HELL DID WE HAVE CHARLIE WEIS
PAYCHECKS AND DONUTS WAS HE COULD EAT.
PAY HIM IN SHIT. THAT'S THE ONLY FAIR PRICE.
BOOM BOOMY KILL, THIS JOB KILLS COACHES DEAD
WITH STRESS AND SCREAMING TEN WINS OR YOU'RE DEAD.
YOU MAY NOTICE THIS STANZA ENDS WITH DEAD
THAT'S BECAUSE FLORIDA WILL KILL YOU DEAD
DEAD DEAD DEAD DEAD, DEAD DEAD, DEAD DEAD DEAD, DEAD;
BOOM KILLY BOOM, I'M GOING TO HAVE A GODDAMN STROKE.