Hang on, stitching together your page...
That shot was cheap and rudely untoward.
It’s not his fault that he’s a bemel.
But more than that I can’t afford,
whereas with gold he’s practically enameled.
Now is it odd we banter playfully?
After years of wishing, hurt just numbs.
I’ll be content to follow
and sit at heel, living off her crumbs.
Do you mind if I join you, dear dados and rabbets?
I can see you’re perplexed by the failure
of young Dilys at rhyming, and fear he’ll be nabbed
and imprisoned by poetic jailer.