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

by James Percival Haverson

Sorehead Sonnet Twelve

I've heard that ancient wheeze that says a knock
Is just a boost that's sort of lost its way—
Excuse me if I smile, I want to say
That hunch is phoney, it is on the rock
That's sure to bust your dream an' sink your stock.
The mutt that doped it out should hit the hay,
An' sleep it off er let it fade away;
His time has came accordin' to my clock.
That joke is one that I refuse to see.
Get off that stuff; you're handin' out a stall
That's just a bunch of dago-talk to me;
You might as well be playin' to the wall.
Your number's up—it looks like 23.
I must admit that I don't get the ball.