Reports have reached my ears that you are cruel
and apprehend the damage that you do
that countless sleepless nights to you accrue
and many stand in line to play your fool.
Some have compared you to the pitcher plant
that, horns unfurling, reeks a wild perfume
whose naphtha s soon bewitch the hapless ant
that knowledgeably trudges down to doom.
Some have even whispered curious cases
who wander witless, hollow-eyed and dumb
blind as though from staring at the sun-
despondency the figure of their faces.
But which of this is fact and which is fiction
little brooks the pitch of my affliction.

Morgan Michaels

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/traditional-sonnet/