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My Lark is Key to None but Me
I’ve flibbered every gibbet,
I’ve toitied every hoit,
I’ve had them fried at firesides from Malmo to Detroit.
How keen my heart with keening,
How simply stark the beat,
Each pumping squeeze must full appease the time left uncomplete.
Once, as I sang of Sing-Sing,
I felt I grazed on Greece.
And so I strayed a merry way with sense as centerpiece.
I tried to wobble collies
Who barked the widow’s shins,
With every path an epigraph, laid out in prickly pins.
I’ve tugged at words absurdly,
My failures mar the quire,
But still I breathe 'til I unsheathe my sharpest swept desire:
Though stance just never happened,
And uppance never came,
I shall repose and stroke my nose, and bloviate the same.
I’ve toitied every hoit,
I’ve had them fried at firesides from Malmo to Detroit.
How keen my heart with keening,
How simply stark the beat,
Each pumping squeeze must full appease the time left uncomplete.
Once, as I sang of Sing-Sing,
I felt I grazed on Greece.
And so I strayed a merry way with sense as centerpiece.
I tried to wobble collies
Who barked the widow’s shins,
With every path an epigraph, laid out in prickly pins.
I’ve tugged at words absurdly,
My failures mar the quire,
But still I breathe 'til I unsheathe my sharpest swept desire:
Though stance just never happened,
And uppance never came,
I shall repose and stroke my nose, and bloviate the same.
I really like the wordplay here, but it's sharper in some places, where a stanza's ending line outright rhymes instead of just coming close. I also don't get a few of the jokes, but they may just be expressions I haven't heard before. Fun piece that seems to be saying that not everything you try to write works, you still enjoy the effort.