A Cornish Pastiche

My poetry is crusty on the outside

and lacking any meaty substance on the inside;

whereas the coating of rhymes,

although flakey at times,

does bear the taking of a second bite.

At night, my words cry out for perusal;

they yearn to be read in the dark;

I try and make things up,

and use all the tricks of the poetic trade…

but I still fill the cup

with warm lemonade.

However, with my poems,

a meal deal you can have;

with a pastiche that is cold,

a side of leftover words that are sad to behold,

and a drink that attracts flys and wasps

(recently flown in from one Stow-on-the-Wold).

I could say more,

but am nervous and unsure,

as to how to end this—