Dwel I in Peace with Her Whom I Did Bone

The Sonnet
Dwel I in peace with her whom I did bone,

Whos supple flesh beside me does repose,

And think I of that maiden, notte yet gone,

Her hair akin to rime wolves' swarthy tose.

I could not sound the trumpet of the skye

And claim that I was blest in her embrace:

Her skill at loving, like a warforged's eye,

Was quite mechanical, and lacking grace.

Her chest, so wooden, like one in a tomb,

With rivets strewn across its tawny skin,

Makes me afeared of offspring of her womb

Who must be like to half-orcs drunk on gin.

Yet peace have I in that it could be worse:

I might have lain myself down with a horse.

by Yon-dun