The ditty traipsed along my tongue,
Its head hung limp and low.
It tried its best
To make a jest,
But knew it was all show.
It once was almost classic.
Shakespearean in style.
Now old and tired
In grumbling mired,
It lacks all zeal and guile.
And thus it ends another day,
Spreadeagled on my lip.
Just a ghost
Once foremost.
Before it lost its grip.
