This one is a slightly messed-up Shakespearean sonnet. It's in iambic pentameter alright, but entirely in rhyming couplets. Not in alternating rhyme scheme (a-b-a-b, c-d-c-d, etc.), as the conventional Shakespearean sonnet is. The subject matter is, however, Shakespearean. Provided Bill was in a bar in South India.
Which pillage they with merry march bring chome
You are a pretty man inside a bar.
No matter what you say, that's what you are.
Your problem is that you expect much more
Of your mind, but love, know this for sure:
Your dwindling intellect doth have a cure.
Come now, sweet ass, that's what your face is for!
Let not the politics of life furrow
Your hitherto unperturbed perfect brow.
Leave you the world's affairs to lesser Men
Your chest hair will out-do the mighty pen.
You may not win a national debate,
And you will always get the joke too late.
But let this truth forever set you free:
Your face is your best friend, DL2C.
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