You better hurry to say all you can now
In iambic pentameter ,in fourteen lines.
You fret third and fourth line are a waste.
Worry wastes two lines already, scumbag.
And now the fear of all coming to close
Fritters away eighth leaving just six lines.
But by now it is clear you are empty hag
A used up teabag ,dregs left of a worth.
You do nothing but whine in pentameter .
Now call a town crier to finish last lines.
There is not much to say in the last line.
Whatever left use it for your headstone.
(Referring to Life is a sonnet: an illustrated passage from A wrinkle in time by Madeline L’engle , in Signature)