The Sonnet in Drag

She’s charismatic, mistress of the brag. 
Who turns a look like hers? The highest tuck 
you could have—you might say she’s enjambed. Her wig 
don’t ever slip. Her lip sync’s never slack.

She struts around in five-inch heels and lines 
her syllables in red lip liner. Looks 
like one of Shakespeare’s girls. And boy she rhymes 
like he’s inside her—thumbing through her book.

You’ll want to read like her. You’ll want to wear 
hip pads beneath your quatrains. Stuff big words 
in every line to burst the iamb’s brassiere. 
To be Elizabethan, queen of bards.

But can you bring it like a bottom from the top— 
from the title to your couplet’s death drop?