Sour Sonnets of a Sorehead & Other Songs of the Street/Sorehead Sonnet Seven

by James Percival Haverson

Sorehead Sonnet Seven

If I could lay me lunch hooks on a dime
An' feel it good an' solid in me mit,
I would drop dead wid joy er throw a fit—
That's why I sing this sort of sorehead rime.
To be a simple rummy is a crime,
This honest gag don't ever make a hit
An' Virtue lands you where the dead ones sit.
The phoney gets the velvet all the time.
Some guys is boostin' things that is to be,
But half the time, they're handin' out a stall—
The silver linin' to the clouds I see
Is bogus er it isn't there at all—
Those "Cheer up" texts don't make no noise wid me.
They're only fit fer paintin' on the wall.