I don't blame you. In fact, I think you deserve a massage and a four course meal at the fanciest restaurant in town. Unfortunately, I have no way of giving you either a massage or a four course dinner of any kind. So instead I opted for poetry.
Because seriously, nothing says 'I survived the holiday without killing Crazy Aunt Sally or maiming my children' quite like a sonnet.
Yep, a sonnet.
A rural redneck sonnet.
Disclosure: If you're new to the blog, you need to know that I am no poet. Seriously. I am fully aware of this.
Which is totally liberating, because since I have neither the desire nor the ability to write decent poetry, I can write whatever kind of poetry I want instead. And I do. Here is some of my previous Rural Redneck Poetry. It includes both a haiku and a limerick - I'm diverse that way. The Dead of Winter. It's not for the faint of heart, just warning you.
Feel free to leave some of your own rural redneck poetry in the comments - whatever kind you want. It'll kill some time while the kids are running around the house having a Nerf war and the in-laws are discussing both religion and politics. If someone asks what you've been doing you can say that you were reading and composing poetry. They'll be impressed. Or fear you. You're good either way.
Rurification Sonnet #1
I am no rural Shakespeare; that's for sure!
No poet's soul have I. I lack the skill
of lilting verse, vocabulary pure.
Poetic metaphors I often kill.
Like vermin in the house, I plan and trap
and execute my words until they scan.
They scuttle out, unpleasant as the tap
of little claws and teeth upon a pan
of last night's cake. My talents lie elsewhere
in hives and holes and beds of sand and soil.
My seeds and shovels are the tools I care
For most, not words. Not words! Words want true toil.
They’re too much work. Plus - words that flow like honey
are pleasing, yes, but will they earn me money?
The End. In case you were wondering.
