I would, but everyone here knows who we are.

*grumblegrumblegrumble*

Gosh, I'm really *feeling* the mortal pain of that badger. Innit?

I should certainly hope they know who we are, Dr. Badgett. And why, pray, should this make the slightest difference?

Although not strictly a sonnet, Hall's A poem bears a strong resemblance to Shakespeare's Sonnet XVI. Shakespeare's writes:

So should the lines of life that life repair,
Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.

These words, like an especially sharp pencil, have also been known to make grown men cry. The effect on badgers is undocumented. Fear seems a likely response, since the poem corrupts the idyllic "snowy white" pastoral imagery with the anxiety of penetration, as might be felt by a timid youth, or a gentleman in his later years. Thus Hall sharpens his own "pencil" (or his pupil pen) but in doing so, reveals his own mortality - the inevitable bluntness that follows the repeated spearlike piercing of paper (in order, one assumes, to write).

I dissected. No guessing was involved whatsoever.

An unfortunate badger called Lars
Has suffered a pain in the arse
While he sadly can't see
If the pencil's HB
He can still erase marks on the grass.

(It's terrible. Three and a half years of blogging, and I'm reduced to this ...)

Reduced? It's a remarkable counterpoint to Hall's A poem. I won't tolerate the limerick's dismissal lightly.

I think that was a fantastic poem there Pete. I'm surprised you found the time what with all that gardening you do.

And Vaughan, it's because you've done three and a half years that you can think like that. It hasn't reduced you, it has made you more powerful than we ever dreamed possible. Don't knock it.