A pitiable unintentional poet

The Grammer Genious received the following letter anonymously, from a sad victim of that tragic, newly recognized mental illness that compels its poor victims to couch any expression of opinion in Shakesperian sonnet form. 

Dear Grammer Genious,

Help me if you would. My wife keeps nagging me about the way I talk to her. So give me, if you could, your thoughts, and let the chips fall where they may. She says that every time I talk to her, it sounds as if I think I’m some great poet. She claims that rhymes seem always to occur in such a way that, although I don’t know it, I’ve made a poem. In a way, I’m flattered that she’d think I’m that smart. As if I’d ever have any notion how to write a “sonnet”.  I’ve never written anything that mattered.  For sure she ought to know I’m not that clever.  I don’t know what put that bee in her bonnet.

Signed, the Unintentional Poet.

Dear Unintentional Poet,

Roses are red, violets are blue. You have our deepest sympathy.. um,  bada-boo, bada-boo. Or something like that.

Signed, the Grammer Genious.