Sonnets from The Pub

Here’s a sonnet that is not at all posh,
It bounces along like a daft rude song,
It speaks not of dining, but having nosh,
And it likes to fart to let off a pong,
Because this is a sonnet from the pub,
It drinks many pints and eats bags of crisps,
Then gets the munchies, shouts: ‘where’s me grub?’
And pours mockery on people who have lisps,
It stands at the bar, reciting rude jokes,
Like the one about boobs and a nice arse,
And then it takes the piss of of old blokes,
It yells for everyone to join the farce,
So yes, this sonnet likes to shout and swear,
It will dance a jig while eating a pear.

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A sonnet wanders home, its a bit pissed,
It was drinking beer from the tap all night,
Throws its chip paper at the bin, but missed,
Walked past a bush and offered it a fight,
Then, takes a piss behind a broken wall,
It belches, admitting a cloud of fumes,
Wobbles and weaves and nearly has a fall,
Next, it rips a fart that echoes and booms,
It sees a young haiku across the road,
Shouts: “oi! Bollocks to your 17 silly bells!”
Then farts again, with forces that explode,
Drools over boiled eggs, but not in their shells,
So this is a sonnet that’s rough and ready,
And is drunk, and therefore a bit unsteady.