081009. Titled by another. Written in response to their writing a sonnet (They were taking the data mining route. “Time right now consists of writing a sonnet. Shakespeare wasn’t all too brilliant in doing so. The task that is most tedious is counting syllables. I find it brings no flow. It’s simply to constrict, perhaps he found it fun”) 16:40, January 16, 2011 (UTC)

Silly things miscount dialect
Elsewhere speaks with stresses all lacing
Elsewhere speaks with stresses all racing
Too grand. Too unknown. Too derelict
All so brilliant and all so direct
Constraints to the sea: they’re chasing
Constraints to the moon: they’ll sing
Child’s play, loosly sparse in collect
Find it all fun, but don’t get lost
If it isn’t fun, then it is done
Constrain further, dear masochist
The small beat of it is frost
The large beat of it is fun
Always rhyme spite, masochist