Shall I write of thee on this April’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more of plastic:
rough joints may plague thee– but hey!
some of this at least has been fantastic.
Sometime too hot the orange palette shines,
and often the pale complexion yellows
and every fair of toy sometime reminds,
by chance, of your franchise’s changing fellows.
But thy eternal glimmer shall not fade
nor lose possession of that mode thou ow’st
nor shall rust brag thou crumbl’st in its shade
when also in eternal lineart thou grow’st.
So long as haters seethe and eyes can roll
out loud I commit to you my own soul.

(After Sonnet 18; following Napowrimo.net prompt.)