I haven’t posted in a while – busy busy life – but burped out something neat last night that I thought I’d share. I never imagined I’d be up late writing English sonnets, but I was and I did. “Burped” is an exaggeration; it took me three hours to write these fourteen rotten lines.
The Death of Finn mac Cuill
His tales were done, his days had past.
His warriors wandered off and gone.
Long beard grown gray and eyes downcast
He felt his years in every bone.
“I should have died,” he told his wife,
“In battle bold, spear bright with blood.
“False teeth are not the hero’s life.
I fear I’m older than the Flood.”
He came upon a grand notion,
As juicy as a red sirloin.
He’ll reclaim his reputation
Jumping over the River Boyne.
Poor Finn, he slipped and hit his head,
And at the Bend, he lies there, dead.