Iâ€™m a sonnet of odd tuneless music,
Playing fast and slow to the ears many,
Puzzling and wonderfully tonic,
Minds that need to have others of any.
Cruel to others that knows little of me,
But here am I to around others too,
Wanting little in return to that degree,
In others way of calling me a loo . . .
Far from that my kinship of spoken word,
Listen clear and wild to whatâ€™s been thought,
In eyes of theater of the absurd,
For that is far more often than not brought!
I am a sonnet of creative care,
Far close to that of fine reads of Time Square!