It's hours past dusk, in the mayhems of March,
Our business discussions leave lips tasting of starch.
The weather is warm when the wind is compelling,
And I may have confused you with incorrect spelling.
I surmised the start again at the end,
And hoped your quick quips would begin to transcend.
Now I see your feelings relating to me,
By the hilt of the dagger and fear-distilled swagger
Which they used attempting to mug me,
Whereafter desperately I tried homeward to stagger,
Only to now-then feel more lonely.
You see, when last we spoke about a decision,
You gave me less Council than salty derision,
And as I present you in spectacular allegory
another perspective of a blinder man's story,
All you can say is how I'd overwritten my doubt,
A peculiar notion, had you read like a scout.
Well, now you sit there, refusing to think,
Maybe the media has given brainrot reason to stink?
Perhaps being in faith may seem advantageous,
But so to is your laze similarly contagious.
Shall I try to pervey my musings to you,
Or simply let despondence accrue?
For there are few cards to disgracefully play,
And when they are up, at least I will dismay.
If now you decide to dismissively call,
I'll give my best efforts to delight in your drawl,
Or you can try to believe, and pray to conceive
and elegant character I'd wish not to leave.
Now I see your feelings relating to me,
By the hilt of the dagger,
my lamenting old stagger
is needing its time to be free.