How Sonnets Help

Involve yourself in every foreign woe.
I steadfastly refuse to cry for peace,
But tell my enemies, “Call the police!”
They laugh, and thank me for the comic show.
I warn the bastards they had better go,
Or else I’ll be compelled to call my niece
(“Uncle!” she cried), and bring the attack geese
To disembowel them, to quell the foe.

These sonnets are the glory of the age,
And pour out ruthless justice by the litre,
So the great world should rattle, snort, and teeter.
I know only disharmony and rage,
And face the troubles of this deadly stage
With ease of conscience and regular metre.