Professor Plum's Sonnet

‘Tis Mister Green I blame for this whole sham,

The death of proper form in English verse.

Invites me to a so-called “poetry slam.”

The spoken word, I fear, could sound no worse!

Of foul-mouthed ranting I have had my fill.

This farce of lit’rature, sheer angst and drama,

At Milly’s both the prose and pint glass kill.

‘Tis rumored Mister Boddy died of trauma.

But, shrewd Ms. Peacock, as she did depart,

For the… conservatory, so she said.

She had the nerve to call their rambling “art”!

I’d tell our host it’s trash were he not… dead.

When, nervously, Ms. Peacock back did slink.

She clutched in hand... the finest poem written.

She'd swiped it from his Library, I think!

One I oft quote to ladies when I'm smitten.

A flawless sonnet!  This prose that you’re doing

Grieves my soul!  ‘Tis form that’s meant for wooing.