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Who Cares About...? by =BornBlitzed:iconBornBlitzed:





WHO CARES ABOUT YOUR MISTRESS’ EYES?
(A Rebuttal to Shakespeare’s Sonnet CXXX)


Why should it matter in the least if her
Lips are coral red or pale pink?
If suntanned breasts are worrying you, sir,
You need your head examined, one would think.
And you honestly believe her cheeks and hair
Detract because they differ from the norm?
I doubt you'd find another who would care;
For as they are, they are indeed well-formed.
As to her breath and voice, I will concede
That reeks and rasps as adjectives fit well;
But Listerine will satisfy her need,
And huskiness in speech, a flaw? Do tell!
You love her, faults and all, or so you've said—
So you love her; now cart her off to bed!
©2006-2009 =BornBlitzed
:iconbornblitzed:

Author's Comments

I wrote the first incarnation of this twenty years ago, based on the conflux of two events: a college writing assignment and a lovers' spat. The assignment was to write a parody; easy enough. The inspiration to use Sonnet CXXX—itself a parody of the gushy love sonnets of Shakespeare's day—came about when a good friend called me up to complain, "He [her boyfriend] threw Sonnet 130 at me!"

Ladies and gentlemen, never throw Sonnet CXXX at your significant other. Ever. Instead of taking it the way ol' Bill had intended—that nobody's as perfect as his lovesick contemporaries claimed—she (or he) will always assume that what you really meant was: "You are so flawed."

Needless to say, that relationship ended soon after, with far less of a bang than a whimper.


:jester: Update, as of Aug. 2007: This has been entered into *laurengary's parody contest.

Daily Deviation

Given 2008-12-17

The suggester said, "Who Cares About...? by =BornBlitzed is a witty retort to one of Shakespeare's better known sonnets, playing off of the lines of the original sonnet while forming an interesting and amusing sonnet of its own." (Suggested by `GaioumonBatou and Featured by `lovetodeviate)

Comments


love 0 0 joy 6 6 wow 1 1 mad 1 1 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconfunjunkie:
this is brilliant i love it! very good parody, but then i love the original sonnet too I once had a guy read it to me. must admit, took me a little time to figure out the meaning behind it, but as soon as I realised he wasn't actually saying my breath stunk, I was fine.
Can you do anything with the last rhyming couplet the "and yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare as any she belied with false compare." ??? I love those lines!
This is great though congrats.

--
There are things that do not grow on trees, that you cannot learn at school and which money cannot buy. It is the art of seeing the world through your heart.
:iconbornblitzed:
First off, thanks again to funjunkie for putting this on your favorites list—and on my very first day, no less! The final couplet is my favorite part of the original as well. And while I do hint at it in my own final couplet ("So you love her..." I really did try to work something from every part of the poem), I would never presume to tamper with the perfection of the original. :)

--
:| I've tried pursuing happiness. Happiness sought a restraining order.
:icontheletterl:
Ah~ I LOVE that sonnet. Such a great change from the mushy other stuff he writes.

I really enjoyed this rebuttal. Great parody. I wonder how Shakespeare himself would respond to this. XD
:iconbornblitzed:
Well, if I had to speculate, he'd probably say . . . "What's Listerine?" ;)

Seriously, I'd certainly like to hope that he'd appreciate the sentiment, and not sue my behind off. :lmao:

--
:| I've tried pursuing happiness. Happiness sought a restraining order.
:iconstormypetrol:
'Reeks' and 'rasps' are not adjectives.
:iconbornblitzed:
:-O How did I miss that? ;)

I stand on poetic license, also known as the Keats defense. (In his sonnet, "On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer," he falsely credits Cortez with being the first European to see the Pacific—it was Balboa—for purposes of scansion.)

In this particular case, calling them verbs, or substituting the adjectives 'reeking' and 'rasping,' would've thrown off the meter. Besides, I like working longer words into my works; they add to the challenge.

--
:| I've tried pursuing happiness. Happiness sought a restraining order.
:iconbornblitzed:
Oh, and shame on me—I forgot to thank you for reading and commenting in the first place. My thanks, and my apologies. :ashamed:

--
:| I've tried pursuing happiness. Happiness sought a restraining order.
:iconstormypetrol:
That's a terrible excuse. Could one say 'antelopes fly' in a poem because 'birds' might not scan? Being unable to fit metre and sense into a coherent unit is a failing. Keats did not use 'Cortez' because he couldn't scan 'Balboa' -- any idiot could fit 'Balboa' into the line in question by simply removing the unnecessary adjective 'stout' -- it was because he merely lacked knowledge in that field. To compare yourself with Keats, at any rate, is absurd, I'm afraid to say. Sorry if I seem harsh.
:iconstormypetrol:
To clarify still further:


"Darién" is in the east of Panama. And, of course, the alert reader notices, hopefully afterwards, when the poem has made its full effect and the book is closed, that it was Vasco Núñez de Balboa, not Hernán Cortés. Keats had been reading William Robertson's History of America and apparently confused two scenes there described: Balboa's discovery of the Pacific and Cortés's first view of the Valley of Mexico. The Balboa passage: "At length the Indians assured them, that from the top of the next mountain they should discover the ocean which was the object of their wishes. When, with infinite toil, they had climbed up the greater part of the steep ascent, Balboa commanded his men to halt, and advanced alone to the summit, that he might be the first who should enjoy a spectacle which he had so long desired. As soon as he beheld the South Sea stretching in endless prospect below him, he fell on his knees, and lifting up his hands to Heaven, returned thanks to God, who had conducted him to a discovery so beneficial to his country, and so honourable to himself. His followers, observing his transports of joy, rushed forward to join in his wonder, exultation, and gratitude" (Vol. III). Like a true poet, John Keats remembered the moment, the image, not the historical detail: like Keats, the reader should not be confused by the facts.
:iconbornblitzed:
You forgot to attribute Wikipedia.

--
:| I've tried pursuing happiness. Happiness sought a restraining order.

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