sonnet

O, knowest thou how wrongly pass this summ’r?
The DSL be out of order still;
Compose poems I in antiquated mann’r
That no sense make, for much be hours to kill.
“What of thy kitch’n?” saith demon at mine ear,
“Or wouldst thou yon pleas’nt sidewalks stroll not, eh?”
But nay! so wanting be yon fridge for e’er
And weather out the side’s too awful, meh.
“O, what of television?” Ah! but naught
E’er showing on the infernal machine
Will not leave mine own brain to pain and rot.
(This line is useless but keeps to rhyme scheme.)
If this go on, alas! to God I swear:
Insane I turn, albeit no one care.