The condition of my heart is a January swan.
Mottled. Twisty. Largely humdrum.
I wear my motley on my sleeve, where you ought.
Some call it frippery. I call it fraught.
The vocables I shoot for are punchy and swift.
Yes. No. Stay. Go. Here. Now. Whisht.
Violent assertions? A tempest in your soul?
Make like a racoon trashing a swiss roll.
