/lit/ - Literature

ITT: post your sonnets and critique them

I had a pint with Jim the day he died
we walked to Monty's and I got the round.
An April frost had blasted all outside,
and frail, spent cherry-blossom dewed the ground.
We never said no deep nor maudlin things.
I eulogized the Rover's losing year.
He pondered on the vanity of kings,
and offered to provide another beer.
"No one's enough; just one and done." I said.
He smiled and slapped the shoulder of my coat:
"The hand that mocked'em and the heart that fed,
saves tuppence then, to pay the ferryboat."
Since then I've never troubled to decide
to call it fate, or name it suicide.