sink a sword till all you see is hilt/that is what is known as running through/but violence begets guilt/or not/rejection is to jilt/eh wot/abandonment of meter for instance/may bring a grammarian’s remonstrance/ but rules are made to be set atilt/and mine some newness from the silt

if a plant lacks wahwah it will wilt/but a filter is never one who filts

awkward language and a leg lengthener both stilt/just as the shaky premise on which/this mess of words is built

don’t get me started on kilt or milt/but sew some squares and you’ll have a quilt

instance and remonstrance/are a monstrous slantlack rhyme/but a scant Kant canticle or rant/will get you everthyme

after you stop reading/and unspool this non-sense feeding/if you search on “inns near me”/there undoubtedly will be/a nearby Conrad comrade to which you may with lusty snort resort/and live maximally and guestedly/by getting your hilt on

and on on that note i’ll bid adieu/please sheathe your sword don’t run me through