This is no sonnet. Please don't count the feet,
for they have wandered far across the page
and left no prints; they travelled by conceit
and arrogance. They stomped upon a stage
too bright for them, too delicate and pure,
and tripped. They would have fallen, but the choir
was soft and sang the sweetest overture
to clumsy interlopers. We aspire
to laurels, accolades and patrons grand
whose pockets match our own inflated worth;
we mentally design ourselves a brand
to leave a mark upon this barren earth.
Abandon hope of glory, praise or purse:
You've naught to sell but this, a worthless verse.