Dear William, metaphor is gone from view.
Your sonnet is with snickers lately sent.
The Moderns now make mince-meat out of you.
Word nerds say your ‘summer’s day’ a vent.
Oh, William , where must mindful poet step?
The Moderns have no heart for thoughts of love
They know not of pentameter, (those shleps)
or how to rhyme expectant like the dove.
Now, rhyme, they say must be a gambler’s chance.
And all the words, wired, juxtaposed through air.
The line is not conditioned for romance.
Egalitarian, each poet shares.
“There’s nothing new beneath the sun”, they squawk.
As each bard copies other like a hawk.