A True Sonnet Goes Eight Lines And

Pressed Into Service Means Pressed Out Of Shape.

In A Glass Of Cider It Seemed I Was A Mite Of Sediment That Waited For The Bottom To Ferment So I Could Catch A Bubble In Ascent. I Rode Up On One Till The Bubble Burst, And When That Left Me To Sink Back Reversed I Was No Worse Off Than I Was At First. I'd Catch Another Bubble If I Waited. The Thing Was To Get Now And Then Elated.

Nothing Not Built With Hands Of Course Is Sacred. But Here Is Not A Question Of What's Sacred; Rather Of What To Face Or Run Away From. I'd Hate To Be A Runaway From Nature.

End Is A Gloomy Word.

Come Grow Old With Me, For The Best Is Yet To Come!