Monday, 8 December 2008
02:39:08 PM (GMT)
Fickle minds they have at fifteen
When even Lancelot du Lake
Can but trot swiftly in one ear
And out the proverbial other
Leaving nothing but a golden nugget
In his wake.
Swordplay holds little value
In the M-16 generation
How, indeed, can the graceful
Swish-clink of metal crossing metal
Compare to the supersonic rat-a-tat-tat
Of a semi-automatic?
Passionate lips’ embraces
Hold no intrigue for the girl
Whose third base was stolen last night,
Only narrowly avoiding her boyfriend’s
Imminent slide into home
With a teasingly chastising no.
Mighty chain-mail warriors
Mean nothing to the
Flesh-hungered Die Hard fans
Muscle-meaty men define
Heroism in adolescent minds.
Does chivalry mean nothing?
It is frustrating fighting fire
With sonnets that squelch
The erudite light in their eyes
Which they voice with the
Lethargic yawn and roll of eyes
At words I would trace with my tongue
They are too ensconced
In the banalities of life
To dip into the inkwell before them
Preferring to concern themselves
With the who and where and when
Than the more meaningful, why.
Yet, despite their complaints
Of too hot, too cold,
I find myself giddily drunk
From their dandelion wine,
Though they do not care
For it in the slightest.