O Desperate Poet

Shall I compare thee to a cannibal?
Oh so desperate for thy maiden's love,
Thou will pursue without regard for all
And blindly seek to hail thy snow white dove.
Of love, they say, the sonnet lives to feed,
And nurture bud into a blos'ming flower.
But doth this verse to hearty ardor lead,
Or will it crumble as a toppling tower?
For poets of this form near always lust,
And drool upon their goddess's hallowed shrine.
Cans't thou transgress to love one as robust,
Or must thou ever seek to pule and whine?
Losers, creepers, nerds are they,
no wonder love unrequited lay.