Well-Made Verse

I'll manufacture one for you, right here,
Right now: a sonnet with a cold, hard sense
Of timing, of indelicate pretence
(I am the Queen!) and flailing atmosphere
(My underpants are torn). I have no fear,
No wagers riding on some two-days-hence
Events for which my honest recompense
Is money stolen from your fund for beer.

In fact, your drinking has become a shame
Which has alarmed your family and friends,
Who watch your money for unwanted trends,
Like too much beer. You have sullied your name,
You chose beer over poetry: how lame!
This sonnet shows how well well-made verse ends.