Sonnet

Be honest, this might just be the worst sonnet ever written:

There's no such thing as total perfection,

We all strive to be as good as neighbors,

This whole thing is a pointless collection, 

All that is wanted from us are labors. 

Define what is right, what is accepted,

Corruption has lingered in this grey place

And the man may never be contested 

Because the things we the people embrace

Are only valuable to ourselves

And what is vital to him is central

For now I will dangle this from the shelves

Until the issue meets its funeral

And everyone must understand this

Because nothing even truly exists.