The Capital Sonnet
Thus swollen it will pick a fight.
Buried in sand it knows no wrong,
That's when it is not screwed on right.
When it's in love, it's over heels,
No sense can be drilled in at all.
It will claim none knows what it feels,
Till the rest bang theirs on a wall.
At times of pride it is held high,
Yet it must roll when fault is found.
It's the seat of reason but why
Do pretty faces turn it round?
The sanctum of our existence,
Yet bodyless, it makes no sense.