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Beside the Thames-side waterfront
Sir Phillip sighed for Stella.
Of sonnets he'd a bumper crop:
he was a lonesome fella.

He'd monkey with the meter some
and try out metaphors:
she was the sun , the moon, the stars;
a blazing meteor --

He was the craft, the ship, the wand'ring bark
who needed stellar guidance.
She splashed a night-pot on his head
and, smiling, yelled "Good riddance!"

But he with shit upon his head
still bravely strummed a medley
of tunes he'd set his sonnets to;
he sang them loud and steadily.

He sheltered himself with scraps of white
though his verses ran and ran on.
And when he died those poems became
the Great White Western Canon.

  Sharon Kourous

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