Jena Prats' Attempt at an Elizabethan Sonnet:
Sheepish but sharp, I had to shear my wool,
Thus I feel my short, bleeding, razed tale.
Reluctantly Samson, I cut my soul:
A swarthy fluff, blotting brothers so pale.
My vuln'rability palpable, I slip,
Awkwardly thrown in their white, masking mold.
Dull, robotic, I'm slave to sheepdog's nip.
Under gnaws' pain, I must to my knees fold.
Excused as maternal, such bites slice heels,
Draining less blood from Achilles than heart.
Violent crimson as deep as lips it seals.
Contrasting my God-given herd from start,
Dark and rare, peripherally alone,
If extradordin'ry, just pray to be cloned.
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