Last One

Another year of sonnets is a pain.
The stories all contain a common thread,
An Armageddon, threat, a certain dread
In how the opposition isn’t plain
In all its very evil.  It’s enough
To make a reader tired of the news,
Before a second reading, make his views
Deem everybody idiots.  The rough
Of all the further reading I endure
Is simply that I cannot keep away
From arguing with others; any day
Of far too much agreement, and a cure
Of arguing the premises is all
That’s necessary here to stay a fall.