The Art Student, my companion in discourtesy in walking out of the Wharf Theatre on Wednesday night, said this would be a good subject for a sonnet:
Sonnet 9: This is just to say
We walked out of your play last night
from front row seats. We’d hung in there
for five whole scenes. The script was tight,
each actor sound, the set though spare
was spot on, and the vocal coach
had nailed the accents – no reproach
on that score. All these things were fine
but almost from the opening line
I couldn’t, couldn’t feel a thing.
I’d pay to watch two monkeys fart
if done with two boards and a heart.
Last night had timing, lines that sing
and sting. It’s heart that wasn’t there.
Sometimes a pause is just dead air.
Me fail? I fly! 
”On overwhelming and suffocating compliments: Or, She Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven’
‘If only I could find the lines
to say how much these sonnets shine
Instead I’ll steal from Mr Yeats
Yes, JS, this is your fate.
If I could write ‘the cloths of heaven’
I’d pen six pages, maybe seven
But times ‘apoor and life’s a- calling
So Mr Shaw
my verse, appalling.
Abigail
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Not so appalling, Abigail!
It rhymes. it scans, it wags its tail
(or would do if it were a pup).
Thank you for putting in the time
to comment here in words that rhyme
– all on the up and up.
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Love it!
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