Sol said, “Set these words to song,”
As though a melody would stroll along
And park its walker in the café
Then hum 12 bars without delay.
Alas, my musical muse rarely visits me.
Melodies don’t compose themselves, see
So how could I write a sonnet or a song for a
Man who dislikes jazz and prefers the opera?
You ask if I’m familiar with the Bard,
His sonnets with some fondness I regard.
Prolific poet emboldened by your age,
Are we not merely players on life’s stage?
Our words have power we cannot comprehend:
When wielded wrongly, wound; when well, they mend.