guardian.co.uk / poster poems 4 ErnestStickley Comment No. 1060194 April 21 2:43 London/gbr Epitaph Here lies the sonnet, Five hundred years old, The gravestone upon it Reads 'Dead But Extolled'. artistofideas ["BOKE" username was disallowed by guardian site] Comment No. 1060200 April 21 3:43 CART MASTER: 'Ere. He says he's not dead! CUSTOMER: Yes, he is. DEAD PERSON: I'm not! CART MASTER: He isn't? CUSTOMER: Well, he will be soon. He's very ill. DEAD PERSON: I'm getting better! CUSTOMER: No, you're not. You'll be stone dead in a moment. CART MASTER: Oh, I can't take him like that. It's against regulations. DEAD PERSON: I don't want to go on the cart! CUSTOMER: Oh, don't be such a baby. CART MASTER: I can't take him. DEAD PERSON: I feel fine! ... -------------------------- YOU WRITE A THOUSAND SONNETS and your brain will be rewired, I claim, in useful ways. Perhaps not in America's insane, pure flow of bullshit it maintains these days, ...   ... but maybe where a Tony Blair might lose the public's ear for swallowing that crap. YOU WRITE A THOUSAND SONNETS, you'll j'accuse your betters of unworthiness to map ...   ... the values your society proclaims, and cauterize faux-Christians' blasphemy. "Boys, Judgment Day will come. I'm taking names." The sonnet form will truly set you free...   ... to be an asshole of the highest kind: One who can claim that rhyming's blown their mind.