Great sonnets come from disappointed lovers.
(At least that’s what I’m told in English class.)
If so, this one should soar where Petrarch hovers,
For I have ne’er succeeded with a lass.

The sonneteers of old would write of eyes
In which no gentle look was ever shown.
When women look at me, I recognize
That I’ll be spending Friday night alone.

And yet, I dare to hope against all odds
That my rare wit, through poetry expressed,
Will obligate some false poetic gods
To back me on my next romantic quest.

This verse, with deepest hope, sincerely wrought,
Might help me find a girl… but prob’ly not.