I am on it
Like a sonnet;
I’m set upon it;
It is a task that I must do.
And all I ask of gentle you,
Kind and noble reader,
Is that you do not judge me too harshly
Or criticise me too rashly
Because that will hurt my feelings
And I, like potato peelings,
Will feel the need to be discarded into the rubbish bin of life.
And, thus, my conscience will be prickéd
And Time’s boxes will lie untickéd
When as the last push comes to shove
I will be down below, or up above.
And even though I should end it all with a rhyming couplet’s mirth;
I would never, then, entertain the means to split thy girth.