His hair aflow, a wave on golden stream. 

He says things that are unbelievable. 

He sits without any words, silent dream. 

In the quiet we hear all his troubles 

"These dang standards are very redundant." 

The font always too small "Can you read this?" 

We pay detention, never despondent. 

To pass time we'll get him to reminisce. 

And I knew that I would not like poems 

to write them is much harder than it looks,

this by far is the worst sonnet poem.

I much prefer analyzing the books.

I am done now, no more poems for me!

Oh Hunnefeld please hear my desperate plea.