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For weeks football has been morning’s fixture,
With dulcet vuvuzela tones and screams,
Handballs and solid fouls gravely injure,
The men from each set of opposing teams
Night falls and cursor slides to beta,
Still not live, a quiet sigh, chest heaving,
Checking the feeds, no updates, no data
The evening leaves this fanboy grieving
As much as play, miss wry commentaries,
Worry that there’s games somehow to be missed,
Grudge matches played ‘gainst sly adversaries,
At least could we have some updates from Blizz?
Can they have all such blackened ruthless hearts?
And there’s no World Cup VODSs from Nuke the Stars 
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I am impressed 100% of the time by your wit.
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A sonnet is a truly wond'rous form;
The poet holds it near and to his heart
It keeps his comfort, shelters from the storm,
A something he would never wish to part.
The poet ever muses night and day,
The perfect words to fit into a rhyme.
"It's simple," you could nearly hear him say.
Just "A B A B" couplets all the time.
The syllables - oh, that's an easy ten.
A rule that this time I will surely meet.
For where I've failed I shall not fall again,
And thus, he posted - never feared defeat.
But look! The poet never once concerned:
Iambic was a word he never learned
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EPT
