A Sonnet of the Short-Lived Battle Between the Word Sublime and He of Fair Hair

A poet once touched on a word Sublime;
It didn't quite enjoy the poet's touch.
It ate the poet, and leaving trail-o'-slime,
Hid in the woods, eating lost kids and such.
The local townsfolk told the village mayor,
"You must rouse it from the Hinterwilds,
Maybe hire He of the Fair Hair,
For we are tirin' out, makin' more childs."
So the Mayor dispatched He of Fair Hair,
A knight (and part-time player of jazz guitar,)
Who found its lair, and called out, "Pizza's Here!";
The Word Sublime out of him beat the tar
     Now on the blood of children it still sips,
     And to all jazz musicians, gives fat lips.