Too Hot to Write Sonnets

It's way to hot to write sonnets today,
So I'll just sit here in the awful heat
And slowly sink, like mud, into my seat,
Thinking of setting maple trees ablaze,
Perhaps inventing some new type of craze
Of making mischief out of harsh defeat
By telling everybody sweat is sweet,
Or claiming that the moon is out of phase.

I can't write sonnets when the sun, as bright
As heaven's headlights, aiming at our eyes,
Won't stop revolving. Wait a minute, guys!
That's not the sun, it's just my head, screwed tight
And shaking from the heat. Wait for tonight:
The sun will stay on, and moon won't rise.