Super Sonnets | Entertainment & Comedy Poems | The Sonnet Man Edition 5 | Short Sonnet Poems by the Sonnet Man | Poems and Sonnets on Entertainment & Comedy Sonnets
Edition 5 – Super Sonnets | Over 100+ Sonnet Poems Written by The Todmorden Sonnet Man. Short Sonnet Poems Featuring Themes From The Surrounding Area To Love, Nature, Death, Politics and much more. The Sonnet Man Todmorden, Edition 5.
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“He cannot be buried in a blue suit.
He hated blue”, his grieving wife explained.
Clothes sent to charity shop of repute.
Asked, “any way this blue one can be changed?”


The funeral director said he’d try.
“Come back before the service tomorrow.
We’ll see if a colour more please your eye.
Some other suit can beg, steal or borrow.”


When returned, the body was dressed in grey.
Another had come in dressed in that garb.
And, strangely, it was said, he’d hated grey.
So thinking to exchange wasn’t that hard.


“The colour for each”, undertaker said,
“been arranged by switching over the heads.”


Have to be involved in some sort of crime
in order for the movie plot to work.
Maybe to succeed there’s limited time.
Although it’s certain someone will get hurt.


Have to incorporate a love affair,
to give the film added motivation,
so, what happens to them we really care.
In danger, then rescued by brave action.


Betrayal, putting in great jeopardy,
to add to the tension. Fear for the lead.
But evades it, as we’re able to see,
to keep on going with the fate-filled deed.


And from it, there’s the final consequence.
Justice, somehow, in last shots, dispensed.


Rare goats introduced to Afghanistan.
Wool off their back, make expensive clothing.
Start of a new industry, that the plan.
United States Aid, this way, promoting.


Except, it has not worked; was not thought through.
Many processes, from the animal
to the end, well-off user, to get through.
The sponsor, surely must have known it all.


Maybe something like the heroin trade.
That’s processed and transported for profit.
For product that’s wanted, good money paid.
Quality Afghan coat, plenty want it.


But, quite soon, the goats disappeared from view.
Must be assumed they ended in a stew.


Didn’t mean to do it. I grabbed the gun.
Responded in the spur of the moment.
I never wanted to hurt anyone.
Nothing that happened, due to me, was meant.


I took the chance to wrest the gun away;
to point it in another direction.
That a life lost, admit I feel dismay.
But can’t say I was wrong, on reflection.


If hadn’t, her or me might be stiff now.
His, was a crazy state of jealousy.
Claimed she’d betrayed him and their wedding vow.
When the gun came out, revenge, his would be.


Was a struggle and the trigger got pulled.
You know that’s my case. Self-defence it’s called.


I realise where I am. Alcatraz.
Top security jail. Locked in. Lock down.
Dangerous criminals, I know it has.
And tense, brutal warders, who do their round.


I am thinking, ‘how am I to escape?’
From the cell, the compound, the rock, the sea.
Fatal, if I make a single mistake.
If succeed, it would be incredibly.


So, I plan in secret my departure.
Act as though I have accepted my fate.
Make arrangements about which think I’m sure.
Decide to leave before it is too late.


Each phase risky, but I must hold my nerve,
‘til on mainland by my guile and my verve.


Dead in the water saturated corpse.
An accident, or disposed of that way?
From living, accentuated divorce.
Being alive belongs to yesterday.


Maybe is a drowning pure and simple,
Except, surely, be something more to it.
Don’t want anything missed that’s essential.
When know the cause may have to pursue it.


Or could be victim of a murderer.
Held under, or first bludgeoned; perhaps knifed.
Multiple ways to not live anymore.
From Mac the Knife, “body just oozing life”.


However happened. Cause of the slaughter,
and who by, body slumped in the water.


An improved brewery in the countryside.
That, then, the beermakers expansion plan.
But must not despoil, the planners decide.
In a dug out site it would have to stand.


Like this, the brewers built their factory,
with just the roof showing above the land.
Thinking this might still be thought as ugly,
They put grass on top. A solution grand.


And they had another innovation,
which you could call a form of recycling.
Beer dregs from barrels. Their destination
the grassy top. This, surely, the right thing.


The theory, without an if or a but,
was that the grass, with this, would grow half cut.


She’s accompanying Shostakovich
on the hamburger. Getting it to squeak.
Cello, orchestra, working over with
plastic burger, vigorously teeth-tweaked.


The pen picked-up to do The Big Issue
crossword has, at its very end, been chewed.
Plastic bitten as though it were gristle.
Awkward, now, handling to write in the clues.


As I clumsily manoeuvre her legs
to go through the slits in her woollen coat,
she nips my fingers as I grip her pegs.
I shout “this is to stop you getting soaked”.


These, though, minor inconveniences.
Just ‘having a dog’ experiences.


Our team is better than … Barcelona.
We will beat them when the time comes we meet.
For your hopes we are a carcinoma.
No problem we’ll get the ball from your feet.


We will be the winners … Barcelona.
You’ll have to put up being second best.
Your rule in the football world is over.
Barcelona. Can be best of the rest.


But our team’s on top now … Barcelona.
The biggest prizes we will be claiming.
We’re not expecting you to roll over,
but your team’s talents, ours will be taming.


We’re superior as we will show ya.
In the queue behind us … Barcelona.


So what! So what! What I have’s what I got.
And bringing it on is oh so slippy.
I’ve come this far. I’m not ready to stop.
I’ll do my dance like a first-class hippy.


Hot damn! Hot damn! So cool, need a fire, man.
You probably think I’m acting dippy.
But if have no fun, not a trier, man.
I get my share by being this lippy.


It’s not! It’s not, case that I’ve been funked up,
although uptown, found it pretty shitty.
I live here, now, and in own way drugged up.
Dance and sing and play. Don’t need no pity!


Hot damn! Hot damn! Not old, but retire, man.
Staying in the groove ‘til I expire, man.


Peter O’Toole’s Henry the Second told
by Richard Burton’s Chancellor Becket,
in the film of the history re-told,
in a captured French town, not to sack it.


As, for a successful occupation,
it is best not to crush those overcome,
but, instead, to corrupt opposition.
More effective, then, the job that is done.


That Machiavellian sentiment
is relevant in political ways
still today, to mute, if not end, dissent
with ‘gains’ of some sort affordably paid.


Vested interest to accept, the stuff.
Only uncorrupted dare say “enough”.