Today's prompt invites us to play with alliteration, consonance, and assonance. I'm so sorry that it has come to this poem.
Assonance, assiduous, arrived at the bar, atlas in hand.
"Drink, dear sir!" No damsel in distress (duress too, one supposes) would be denied.
Dissonance, seated to her left, hissed soundly so to as to dismiss, longed for conspicuous lists of
trysts from beyond the mists.
Consonance, concerned with copious conundrums, cornered Assonance and clarified his callous conjuring: "Love is long in the legumes. Reeled in with reason while writhing in the reeds."
Grandpa Alliteration is at his trusted stool, sipping sloppy from the Sapporo bottle again. A man who knows his mettle, seated on metal, salt like the earth long settled, wilted like petals. "UGH." he laments.
The writer falls face first in his filet. This failed farce has gone on too far. The sound police, along with those with reason and taste, are chanting their disdain for what he has done. May God grant him grace.
May the Gods of Poetry load their righteous lightning bolts(TM), or soliloquy cannons(also TM), or whatever it is they shoot, strike down this war criminal. Put him in the Poetry Hague.
For what it is worth, he is cackling maniacally. Who will win Assonance's favor? Will the writer ever finish his steak? Are the Gods Poetry Wrathful, Just, or Merciful? Why is this poem written in couplets?
They've lost the plot, sir.
They've lost the plot.
Applause!
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