Monday sonnet, eight days late. Scratch that, make it one day late.

[fr_defenestrato]

Ok, ok, I didn't post a sonnet last week, but I posted TWO the week before, dammit. This one I started writing in the wee small hours of Wednesday morning, and finished it sometime Saturday evening... or was it Sunday? Dunno, don't care.

Remember how I said I woke up early last Wednesday with the crazy idea of constraining a sonnet by more than just rhyme scheme and meter? Ok, so read this first:

Knabes Wisdoum
As we in our age did our catechisms,
So must angelic youth attend its sound,
Averting doubt and their dour age's schisms.
Fortunately, if your ascent is bound
By barren, pious natterlings of "truth,"
Abstemious and dyspeptic, you (and we!)
Discount all their foul rants, lest witty youth
Fall prey, without prayer, into dullardry.
Thy previous attentions turn askew:
Imply no umbrage; wish no curate ill.
You are, in thought, a devious mastermind.
You bandy cents without a fetid sou,
And splendid courage is your way defin'd.
Your adept's singsongs ugly chants bestill.



As wE In OUr AgE dId OUr cAtEchIsms,
SO mUst AngElIc yOUth AttEnd Its sOUnd,
AvErtIng dOUbt And thEIr dOUr AgE's schIsms.
FOrtUnAtEly, If yOUr AscEnt Is bOUnd
BY bArrEn, pIOUs nAttErlIngs Of "trUth,"
AbstEmIOUs And dyspEptIc, yOU (And wE!)
DIscOUnt All thEIr fOUl rAnts, lEst wItty yOUth
FAll prEy, wIthOUt prAyEr, IntO dUllArdry.
Thy prEvIOUs AttEntIOns tUrn AskEw:
Imply nO UmbrAgE; wIsh nO cUrAtE Ill.
YOU ArE, In thOUght, A dEvIOUs mAstErmInd.
YOU bAndy cEnts wIthOUt A fEtId sOU,
And splEndId cOUrAgE Is yOUr wAy dEfIn'd.
YOUr AdEpt's sIngsOngs UglY chAnts bEstIll.