Fourteen lines is just what you have herein
Now we find you have wasted one already.
You better hurry to say all that you can now
In iambic pentameter ,in fourteen lines.

You fret second and third line are a waste.
Worry wastes two lines already, scumbag.
And now fear of it all coming to close
Fritters away eighth leaving just six lines.

But now it is clear you are empty hag
A used up teabag ,dregs left of a worth
Do nothing but whine in pentameters
Now call a town crier to finish last lines.

There is not much punch left in the last line
Whatever left please use it for the headstone.

(Referring to Life is a Sonnet: an illustrated passage from A wrinkle in time by Madeline L’engle , in Signature: Life is a sonnet)

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