...cuz there's not much left 'cept a body, and pretty face.
Vogue begs to know what "entertains" me. They'll
Be certain I indulge in that cuz thence
By sheer default, who does not, eh? My sense
Of that is either quite perverse sans bail,
Or mebbe true: naught but distracts me, pale
As sich assertions that's my case from hence.
I'll laugh for this or that, watch for intents
Both movies, and the id'ot box t'avail.
Yet all's for mere DISTRACTION. Joy is poor,
Quite frankly. I am broken, smile as due,
And swear it's all a game of sheer, as twere:
Pretending. Christians say that is not true.
So what am I? My heart died whenas her
Heart did, and I'm a shadow, fading through.
Oh dear! I think I put down recently that I'm not depressed.
Or? Go figure.
What? as night's blackness is passe in frail
Excuse, the hours now merely for good sense
Um, stacking up whiles I close down from hence
This slim machine for lack of aught else' tale,
And this where Twitter promised to avail
Itself of all my minutes--all's fr'intents
Too dead, dull, boring--I've moved on, pretense
Worn to a frazzle in aught that I'd hail.
Remember: "I should write more--" to bestir
Me, yet ideas have flown off unto
Is't nether regions? cuz I "watched in tour"
Who cares who? Fashions. "Follow her--what you
Should wear is...THIS." I've MY own style, in poor
'Scuse, am ergo at odds with all, cool too?
Sir Philip Sydney would fume at L4 since the rhyme slides into itself over and over.
— The End —