An class assigned sonnet-like response to "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun" by the bard himself. It's not perfect iambic pentameter, but amusing.
Some may want those abs to be a six pack,
oh, but yours, I’m afraid is two liters;
that and your tattoo of some womans’ rack,
are barely hidden by your wife beater.
You drive a tractor all day with a frown,
you farm; in your trade no man is wiser;
a hard worker from sun up to sun down,
sadly your product is fertilizer.
A solid education, you have not,
you won’t be, nor can name the worlds leaders;
most of your schooling spent with some ink blots,
avoiding the stay with bottom feeders.
But I love you, you idiot, you know.
You have harvested our love, row by row.