She’s on a mission in her shabby dress.
Back home, her sisters drink soup without her.
Who’s she, this dauntless Dilly Dedalus?
She’s a true Dublin Streets Irregular.
Surly Simon demands she stand up straight,
And calls his daughters insolent bitches.
Dilly’s hungry, but she won’t bite the bait,
From his pockets, herself she enriches.
With shoulders high and her new French primer,
She asks sad Stephen if it’s any good.
Her self-centered sibling’s answer to her:
He asks about his own books. Yeah, he would.
He’s as bad a bro as Simon’s a dad.
She’s far better than them, Dilly’s pretty rad.
Stay tuned for more pronoun-stuffed sonnets.
Same Sherlockian time, same Conan channel.
I feel a cold, old wind fondle my ear,
Buck’s words I hear, he’s one bad amigo.
Atop Martello Tower, he’s all jeer.
Tune in, I’m on a Bloomsday Radio.
I feel a tightening in my scrotum,
And my tally whacker yells tallyho.
The Irish Sea is so cold, she shrinks him.
Turned blue, I’m on a Bloomsday Radio.
No comprende, why’s it freezing in June?
My blood has ebbed. Wait, was that an ice floe?
Now my California eggplant’s a prune!
Tapped out, I’m on a Bloomsday Radio.
Next June, I’ll turn the dial to Calypso.
Or cuddle this cold and just go commando.
Stay tuned for more voodoo sonnets.
Same southern time, same border channel.