So, without further ado, here is my 8-sonnet sequence. Please keep in mind: 1) I am not a poet; 2) this sequence is meant to be snarktastical, not classical; 3) Please forgive the not always perfect meter and the occasional stretch when rhyming.
By the way, since I have yet to title this baby, brownie points to the person who comes up with the best title for it!
Sir Simon, our hero, a right proper Scot
(No really, he has a tattoo to prove it)
Master of wordplay, and skillful bon mots
A poet and scribe, of unequalled wit
Journeyed to the glorious land of Blog
Where he found himself outnumbered by far
Man among women, the clear underdog.
He flirted, cajoled, and bantered galore
Making the ladies of Blog swoon and sigh
But when legions of followers did not
Flock to his side, he was sure he knew why
‘Twas his gender that ailed him – a lot.
But he’d learned a lesson, and now he knew
What it felt like to walk in women’s shoes
(Cuz we all know it’s an actual place)
They offered umbrellad drinks every night
Life was sweet, lived at a leisurely pace
But Sir Simon was restless, for manly
Endeavors. He craved vodka and metal
(Of the symphonic variety)
So he resolved ‘twas time to test his mettle
With a quest for his yearned-for libation.
Quickly he made his way to the stable
Keeping to shadows, his nerves tight with tension
He must find a ride both sturdy and able.
He found Schwinn, and Fuji, and Roadmaster,
But chose Peugeot – because it was faster
He jumped on his bike and charged from the scene
Giddy with joy to finally be free.
Heading east for Scotland, so long unseen
And so he began his own Odyssey.
His trip went well, obstacles avoided
Except for the sirens: he listened and loved
Crushing on Charlotte and Simone the Redheaded
But thirst for vodka and homeland beloved
Were stronger than the sirens of metal.
Slightly heartbroken and melancholy
Face to the wind, and his mind on his goal
With no more ado continued his journey.
Still deep in thought he had no way to know
Nearby was trouble for him and Peugeot.
(and because he is the great Sir Simon)
With the laws of physics he quickly dispensed
And easily crossed the Atlantic Ocean
On a bicycle, only to find his
Beloved homeland ruled by a new queen.
He parked Peugeot outside of her palace
Beside a strange squat cart, and surveyed the scene.
As far as his eye could see were scores of
Old men swinging clubs at little white balls
Urging them down tiny holes with love.
By this strange turn, Sir Simon was appalled
Determined to get answers he entered
The palace, and by his courage was bolstered.
Curled by a fire and reading a good book.
Instead of traditionally queenly
She seemed to be down to earth, by the look.
“Welcome, Sir Simon. I am Queen Embee”
“Good lady, what have you done to my home?”
“You would have these men wear skirts so wee,
Eat haggis, and fore’er the highlands roam?”
“’Tis Tradition!” he roared, all riled up.
“This system works: I sell them beer, we flirt
For a while, they play golf. A good setup.”
“I won’t have it, the old ways must revert.
Back to old men in pubs where they’re well met.
And all the rest, on this I’m firmly set.”
I know ‘tis the vodka grail you truly seek.
Tho your homeland ire you really do feel,
‘Tis not the ultimate goal that you seek.
Those old men that you see golfing outside
All came in search of the vodka grail too.
I know its location, which I will confide
If you win the challenge I give to you.
In addition, should you succeed I will
Return this land to its old traditions.
But if you lose the land is mine and you’ll
Join the rest of the losing cretins.”
“I have little choice but to agree,” quoth he
If I am to have the grail and be free.”
Queen Embee laughed, “I choose sonnets my dear.”
“Beg pardon? Methinks I misheard you maybe.”
“Indeed you did not. ‘Tis a form I revere.”
“Then I am game and on you should bring it.”
And so it began, the hero and queen
Trading sonnets for more than a fortnight
That neither could win was an unforeseen
Until to a draw they agreed with delight.
“You are a worthy opponent, Good Man.
Honorable and true, ‘twas a good fight.
I shall reward you by gifting half this land
And by relinquishing to you the grail.
With no clear winner, ‘tis a right fair deal.”
And tho I weep that the Land of Scot will
Not remain whole, take what I can get I will.”
He bowed, she nodded, their bargain fulfilled.
“And now let us celebrate, Good Hero.”
With a flick of the wrist the grail appeared
A fifth of vodka which set his eyes aglow.
They drank and to each other they cheered
And to two new nations: The Land of Scots
Where traditions continue to rein true,
And the Land of Golf where all the old farts
Continue to hit their balls and sip their brew.
And at the end of this sequence so clever
Everybody lived happly ever after.