#Sonnets. Lucien Young

      Thine endless content doth my heart content.

      Ne’er do I grudge thy small subscription fee,

      Much less the countless hours on thee spent.

      For when I would my thirsting laptop slake,

      Assemblest thou the songs of sundry bards:

      One eve I shall of Stranger Things partake

      The next of Narcos, Love or House of Cards.

      Alas, at times thy wares are so arousing

      I cannot choose, and, vainly scrolling on,

      I waste my day a thousand programmes browsing

      And lose the chance to watch a single one.

      Man’s heart, though lacking naught, still wanteth more

      And thus a wealth of choice doth make us poor.

      GAME OF THRONES

      In Westeros, three noble houses feud

      Called Lannister, Targaryen and Stark.

      These lords and ladies in their towers brood

      On ancient conflicts and betrayals dark,

      While I, poor viewer, wonder why this show

      Hath such a surfeit of protagonists.

      Each hour brings more, although I scarcely know

      Who that blonde woman with the dragon is!

      But still I find, when seasons start to bore,

      That Maesters Benioff and Weiss will push

      Onscreen some bosomy medieval whore

      With quite anachronistic lack of bush.

      Thus am I kept a sedulous downloader,

      Enduring endless scenes of Bran and Hodor.

      MRS SLOCOMBE

      Imperious mistress, thou of mad-hued hair,

      Full often on thy form mine eyes have perved.

      Fain would I be thy servant, and with care

      Ensure thine ev’ry need was being served.

      When thy great beauty graced the BBC,

      Thou didst with ease outshine the fair Miss Brahms.

      And still the question lingers: art thou free

      To spend a lifetime in my loving arms?

      Saleswoman cruel! Wouldst thou deny this bloke,

      Who would quite gladly give his life so that

      He might but once thy famous pussy stroke?

      (And, no, I make not ref’rence to thy cat.)

      O Mrs Slocombe, how thy name doth trick,

      For when I think on thee, I come too quick!

      SNOOP DOGG

      Let others laud their Tupacs and their Ices,

      Both Cube and T, their Biggies and their Dre-s.

      Thou art more cool, thou rap game Dionysus,

      Enshrouded in thy weed-cloud’s shimm’ring haze.

      Fain would I share a gin and juice with thee,

      Whilst thou recounted great and pimpish deeds,

      Then proudly toast the D-O-double-G

      My blunt bereft of stems or sticks or seeds!

      O, heed not thou those wack, allergic churls

      Who call thee old, or by thy chronic marred,

      Or say thy verse on ‘California Gurls’

      Doth mean thou art from O.G. status barred,

      For while the critics chide and haters grizzle

      Thou Snoop remain’st: the big boss Dogg, for shizzle.

      DOCTOR WHO

      My love is like the Doctor, who doth save

      The world each week: my love shuns not the chase,

      Nor is my love to earthly rules a slave,

      But doth traverse the bounds of Time and Space.

      My heart I have thee rendered; thine my heart is,

      Thus double hearts doth beat in single breast.

      My love of thee, proportioned like the TARDIS,

      Is vaster than its outside might attest.

      Like members of the Gallifreyan race,

      The fleeting years cannot my love destroy.

      It doth endure, though it may change its face

      And spend unhappy ages as McCoy.

      Time’s not our lord, my love, for passions great

      Not even Daleks may exterminate.

      LONDON

      Thou mistress cruel! Thou dost mistreat me so.

      Thou art unfriendly, dirty, rude and grave.

      Though I admire thy grandeur, thou dost show

      No corresponding love to me, thy slave.

      I have not means within thy heart to dwell;

      That central part disdains the likes of me,

      But still I strive each day my soul to sell

      That I might slum in thy periphery.

      And yet, when I resolve from thee to ’scape

      My will doth quickly fail. What should I do?

      In some poor hamlet an existence scrape,

      Where jobs are scarce and strangers talk to you?

      Thy loss imagined turns my veins to ice

      (Though lots of people tell me Brighton’s nice).

      THE WOMEN OF X-MEN

      Which female mutant matches best my love?

      Shall for a blazing Phoenix I thee take,

      Whose mind all other minds doth soar above,

      Or Storm, whose changing tempers tempests make?

      Sometime thou putst on aspects like Mystique,

      Or else the diamond form of Emma Frost;

      Like Kitty Pryde, no bound’ry can thee pique;

      Like Scarlet Witch, ne’er should thy charms be crossed.

      But I know thou art Rogue: thy power’s bourn

      Containeth skill of all thy diverse peers;

      Thy touch doth leave me weak, of vigour shorn,

      While thou dost stronger grow with passing years.

      Thou art uncanny, love: I am thy captive;

      The great Magneto ne’er was more attractive.