(sonnet # CXXVIII)
CXXVIII
I guarantee this can't be me, oh No.
It's got my voice and thinks alike, parades
About as if 'tis so, but it's charades.
For I had arms and it has limbs that grow
Vile golden lesions oozing e'er, itch so
Much, which when bumped a gaping wound upbraids;
Legs likewise so. A monster masquerades
As me, that's swollen, red and sticky, slow.
They term these "minor" problems of the skin:
Which make one mis'rable and odious,
At least distract and make one feel akin
To reptiles, derail "life" and cause much fuss,
Discomfort, grief. And all for working in
Some poisoned weeds. I did and thus discuss.
22Jun11