Stupid iambic pentameter. *shakes fists*
Poems, public made, are a private lie,
A gross display of falsest invention,
The buzzard's caw masked as the songbird's cry,
An idle turned with hollow intention
False words turn'd into honeyed bait,
Crafted cunning to catch the broken heart,
Leave untrue wordsmiths to their fate,
And hope that soon the serpents will depart,
But, lo, my sweet verse is meant to render,
The burden of the love I cannot hide,
And thus are my words true and tender,
Shap'd crudely, wrought without thought of pride,
Your love and your trust, I would fain abuse
For you are both my solace and my muse.
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