If you're really good I might let you see them, that is, if I can find the pointy-toed knitted pink preemie booties some coworker's wife gave my parents....
(sonnet #MMMMMMCXX)
Suppose I'm but a nymph whose sprite in frail Excuse wars, tangled by long cherished thence Auld loves, and sorrows which I canna hence Shrug off. My father aye, and brothers hail Me as so oddly wont to in betrayl Don effervescence, whiles griefs own my sense Of whither, glad to see this warm eye whence These yellowed fields bask, dead, as if'd avail. I dabble in the thought of Death as twere, Like twould thus ransom me from here, though blue Skies whisper to my soul of yonder fer All that. Yea, I hate aught, but love each too. Or praps I hate myself cuz joy is poor And crimnal, left a prisner, whence I rue.