is it already time in sparity
for tomorrow’s song, conspiring
just past a moment’s caesura beshinding
and a quaver in triplets sequiling?
staccato, legato, and elluish garnishes,
reveling beats and cantabile varnishes,
capriccio encores, as slathibirs and borespors,
such singing will leave you reciting
the extrons and motile warblings
of pub-songs, warm and inviting.
and when you are done with the chorusing
of colly-woos and the hollo-joy-cholla,
drink a toast to the wencesial spirit, of course,
and say a prayer from the wells of your golla.