This is a tale about a guy named Bill

who wrote a lot of sonnets years ago.

I read a few when I had time to kill,

through winter days when sheltering from snow.

 

It’s no surprise a lot of them are good;

the iambs really complement the rhyme.

I browse them sometimes when I’m in the mood

and marvel, ‘cause the writing is sublime.

 

There’s only one thing I don’t comprehend,

and only Shakespeare knows the reason why

there are no titles for the works he penned,

just numerals to try and catch your eye.

 

To give them names should not have been so hard

Perhaps our Bill was just a lazy bard.