And lo! Your eyes are like the nightly stars—
But unlike those pricks, you change and grow.
See there, a trumpet bold and violet
Beholds our love, as yet nothing mars
Our affair. Although you live down below,
I would not have you fret. I don’t regret
Our meeting or your parting, or the scars
I’ve rendered on your tendered flesh. It so
Happens you are great a cure for my upset
In whatever tasty form you take at bars,
My dear potato.
For those of you going "This isn't a sonnet", Wikipedia has an article on curtal sonnets.