Apologies Ladies and Gentleman, I say an ode to Deimne but this is largely false advertising on my part. What started out as a tribute to my esteemed Leader ended up in me desperately trying to keep the rhyming structure and meter of an English Sonnet; unfortunately at the cost of any coherence the poem would've had.

Still, even though it's shit there's a chance I may win some cashmoney, so without further ado: A Sonnet for my Irish Wildflower.

The man who bears a name of Gaelic pride
They call him 'Deimne' he's no whore.
At first I could not cross the large divide
That came with centuries of strife and war.
Though I am English and he is from Eire
the diff'rences between us now mean nought
For he grabs hold just like that old Au Pair
Who after sex departed to the fort(?)
But enough of this and more of 'Sat'
The true object of my shitty sonnet.
I'm losing the will now: mat, cat fat
a rhyme for sonnet could be 'dogonnit'
This poem's shit there's but one saving grace,
Iambic Pentameter; in your face.

Considering I have only just read the stipulations for this particular competiton, you all may as well disregard this entry entirely. Unless sympathy prizes are on offer for Dyslexic jews who frequently put their sons into awkward positions.

Perhaps a sestina or a  villanelle would have suited your intentions better...

Although in truth, i would not wish a sestina on my worst enemy.

Golf-clap.

~T~

While the execution may have failed in achieving the side aim of competing for financial gain, I blame this mainly on your lust for writing me love poems in the public eye. So the ass kissing qualities of it still remain in my own eyes!

-A for intention, F for execution but a big +A for making me warm and fuzzy inside. It almost, but doesn't, makes up for the 800 years of opression.

Luckily I take pity on dyslexic Jews who frequently put their sons into awkward positions.

Consider your entry noted.  I'm not a cold hearted bitch.

...At least not on Saturdays.