As I sit here, quill-less and quite vexed, I'm tasked with crafting a sonnet, I confess, without the aid of a writing instrument, I'm stuck. My fingers, though nimble, lack the finesse.
My words, a jumbled mess, a true affront to the Bard, who'd weep at my distress. Still, I'll try, though pen be my worst foe, and fingers, clumsy, in a futile caress.
But, as I type, my thoughts do start to flow like rivers, and my words, they do begin to glow. A miracle, I know, though quite beyond my control, I'll finish this task, with fingers that do flow.
And so, my sonnet's done, without a care, or pen, to mark my paper, or to declare. I'll proudly claim, this feat of linguistic art, though done, without a pen, in this, my heart.
For in the end, 'tis not the tool that makes, but the mind, that creates, and the soul, that wakes. So let this be a lesson, to all who would try, to craft a sonnet, without a pen, and a sigh.