As you awake at this, the break of day,
you may have sensed (perhaps with pricking thumbs,
or spousal intuition, who can say?)
that in the night, I had purloined your plums.
‘Twas I despoiled your petit dejeuner!
I’d spent the night imbibing all the rums,
as I espied them, succulent and fey –
when faced with such temptation: one succumbs.
But how to make amends for such rapacity?
Some dozen lines of liberated verse?
No, not a chance – I tend towards loquacity –
my mea culpas never shall be terse!
I’ll find the fridge, and magnetise upon it
this well-constructed, periphrastic sonnet.