This sonnet is a hilarious and incisive take on Heathcliff wannabees, and those dark, byronic, Jimmy Dean
poseurs who never tire of taking pictures of themselves, or looking at themselves in the mirror, or posting new profile pictures on Facebook every day or so.
N leads us merrily along for six lines, giving us a hint at what’s coming next in lines 8 & 9, and then hits us with the walloping volta in its classic place, line 9.
I have no nits whatsoever with this sonnet and I’ve even learned a new phrase, “cop it sweet”. I still chuckle as I type this critique.