I never have enough time to be,
nor know why there's distinct he & she;
I can nether fathom praise bowed,
nor understand why most foolish are most loud.
My thoughts are perpetually around
the sound of an unbound hound
& seldom continue. but pause halfway
to keep at distance what's indeed away.
My hearts always beating in my breast,
modestly covered by a mere vest;
not attempting to regain what fate cruelly took,
seeing forever, without present look.
I habitually procrastinate, putting off next,
finding simple pleasure in composing a text,
wondering why affluent foolish until tomorrow
depite wisdom progress without apparent sorrow.
I intermiitently in thought pause my tea to stir,
wondering how decoy of untalented brings them here,
why ungifted writers become famous with shadows bought
as silly content childlike are sold without vow sought
I contemplate by what way & assay
a person so haughty would delay essay
taking foolish pride by misleading bale
presenting ostensibly attractive book with content pale
