Sonnets Un-Won

A few weeks ago the radio program Studio 360 featured Arthur Philips' book The Tragedy of Arthur in which Phillips penned an entirely fake Shakespeare play. Apparently, he did it quite convincingly, or so say the scholars he consulted. So, the good folks at Studio 360 and Phillips issued a challenge for listeners to submit their own sonnets. The winner's poem would be read on the air.
I did not win.
My 16th century vocabulary is not up to snuff. And realistically, Shakespeare isn't my favorite. (Which is nearly a crime for many English nerds across the globe.) The winner was much more eloquently versed in the ways of Bill S. But I submitted a couple of sonnets just for fun. Too contemporary to pass as Shakespeare, which I'm okay with, and one had failed iambic pentameter anyway. Here are the two sonnets I submitted.

Wounded Friendship/ Tattered Cloth

Alas! No more shall it be let to mend

For silver thread lies tangled on the floor

Unraveled, a heap, the much hidden ends,

Lay in wait with vain hope to restore

The wardrobe that once was brilliant, it shone

From time, effort, and meticulous care

Devoted to keeping it from being outgrown

Now pauper what was once debonair

The greatest of tailors cannot right what was torn

Only the wearers can sift through the mess

So threading untangled shall not be born

For its keepers refuse to address

Gaping holes in the garments, moth-eaten and frayed

Silver thread for the mending, in dust remains staid

Mark Zuckerburg is My Big Brother

Lord Zuckerberg and your brainiac crew:

Surely you're sly as ten thousand foxes

For certainly it was well known by you

The sick addiction tiny red boxes

Would stir in the minds of weak-willed, poor saps

Such as myself, all my friends, and my kin

Seldom a moment we move from our laps

The book of faces now ingrained within

Too firm your grasp! I barely can stand it!

Ever at hand electronic device

Let’s be honest, I rarely unhand it

These social affairs, though, come at a price

Mr. Zuckerberg, we beg you be kind

It’s our dirty secrets you’ve been consigned