Forty pieces of parchment I have put to waste-
Exploring my emotions and feelings in utter haste;
Had I the time to paint the moon gold and yellow,
Such aforesaid wastage would have been mellow.
Yet I scribble on the fortieth my fiftieth,
And such sheer waste of talent it witnesseth;
This fiftieth has been rather tardy,
What can I say? "I'm no Thomas Hardy?"
Save all your well-bred felicitations-
For a simpleton who does not understand punctuations,
And I shall save my tumid gratitude-
From all the world's lies and turpitude.
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