crumbled and rolled

Regarding the Bard 11/28/2013

Filed under: sonnet — paperslightertext @ 4:22 am

My mistress’ thighs are nothing like a pun,
Jokes are far more droll than jokes she’s said,
If wit be toil, why then her breasts are fun,
If desires be fires, fires burn in her head.

I have scrawled quatrains, couplets wry and tight,
But no such verse I seek upon her cheek,
And in some sonnets is there more delight
Than in the words my mistress deigns to speak.

I love to hear her muse, yet well I know
How educated men are thought profound,
I grant I never sought a scholar, no,
My mistress when she talks does not talk down.

And yet, by Heaven, I think my love as bright
As any soul that’s lit by inner light.


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