Kind of a bizarre task, now that I think about it, but I (somewhat successfully) completed a sonnet about Andy Warhol. I have time to make tweaks before I turn this guy in tomorrow afternoon, so if you wanted to save me the embarrassment of a classmate pointing something really awful out in workshop and you just tell me now, I’d appreciate you more than I already do. Anyways, seven-ish lines are in iambic pentameter, or at least I hope seven are. That was the goal. So, if you’d like to test your knowledge of formal poetry meter, give it a whirl to see if you can identify said lines. Sounds like a blast, right? I aim to please. Have a wonderful morning or afternoon and nighttime when it comes, dear friend.
“Your fifteen minutes of fame is up,” they said,
Repeating to me a phrase that once was mine,
Not knowing that a printed Marilyn head,
Would come to line museum walls in time.
Ten thousand for a can of soup, it sells,
One hundred million for a copy of Elvis,
I’ll change the channel as the volume swells,
Turn off the television, it’s POP you’ll miss.
I’m not afraid to die, you see,
Each day a repetition of rise and set,
Merely living is hard work for me,
My blank epitaph, I fear you will forget.
Unique, eccentric, weird, bizarre, a phony,
Oh, you will never know me.