I have that Indian History midterm tomorrow, and I desperately need to study, and -- just to complicate matters -- I'm tired, so I don't really have time for a proper entry just now.

So, instead, here's that Spenserian sonnet about catnip, which I wrote last night. It's not that bad (outside of the unintended double-entendres in the middle), but I think the second draft is going to be a Petrarchan sonnet. The setup would fit fine into two quatrains, and I need a full sestet in which to properly develop the ending.

Umm, I hope I didn't just lose all the non-English majors reading this. I'd explain, but (a) I don't have time, and (b) it'd probably only bore y'all anyway, so let me just give you the current draft (distributed to the rest of my class earlier today) and get back to studying.

(Oh, darn. I just caught a typo. The problem is that I didn't notice it on the copy my class got. Oh, well.)

Let dogs go beg and scrape and heel and fetch;
No owner's mark on me, I always cried.
I'm on my own, cat of the walk; I feel
No need to get inane and misty-eyed
For others. That's a form of suicide.
Rejecting your routines for what? A girl
Who ties you down: keeps you with her, inside,
And calls on you to come, just like a churl?
No self-respecting cat would more than hurl
A hairball at the notion, so I said.
But came a scent, enticing more than squirrel--
I leapt. I rolled. I purred. I lost my head.
    I'd always thought that I was rational.
    Alas! A hint of mint puts me in thrall.