Nolo Contendere-ing

Rivers: We are gathered here today to speak of Nolo’s poem.
Lingua: Four or five of us are lunatics, and one is a woman.
Foote: Well let me begin with the palpable: it’s not a sonnet.
Lingua: There are some aliens that would say you’re not a poet.
Majors: I could understand this until line nine, which is something.
Lingua: I’m not quite sure I understand why your ears foam.
Foote: This poem has 15 lines, no meter, rhyme scheme, turn, or sense.
Lingua: You have two tongues, no legs, guitar, bass, or drums.
River: OK folks, I do sense a narrative here, though dreamlike.
Lingua: I’m not a disciple of the masculine methodological mob.
Majors: I’d like to know why you changed your name from Nora.
Lingua: I’d like to know why your friends and colleagues call you Twee.
Foote: I know this truly wonderful sonnet and yours is certainly not.
Lingua: There’s a beautiful street in North Beach that your nose resembles.
Rivers: I’m not a fan of either asparagus or broccoli, but I like that line.
Lingua: Robert Creeley once told me after a reading to eat my vegetables.
Majors: There’s an over-rated poet if I ever knew one. No je ne sais pas.
Foote: Creeley could have written a sonnet; I wrote a sonnet; but you didn’t.
Lingua: Creeley is the best feminine poet that was ever a man. You’re both not.
Rivers: Back to the poem in question: who is Abraham?
Lingua: Father of Isaac, champion of the Union, a bum on Columbus and Grant.
Majors: I know an editor named Abraham who begs me for submissions.
Foote: “Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,” Sonnet! Yours, Not!
Lingua: OK Foote, you’re starting to annoy me. Me: postmodern. You: ape.
Rivers: Alright now, as usual in this series, Nolo, you have the last word.
Lingua: Sonnet!