Two Months’ Waste

He’ll save two months of sweat in waste, (exact,)

organic matter, smothered out of life,

a stone from which, a promise, to extract,

to gird the quiv’ring digit of his wife

to be or not. The question is the same,

but not the lovers’ thrust—the parry-point.

Mercutio and Tybalt are to blame.

I’d sooner show devotion with a joint,

rolled by my hand, on paper from a book,

writ’ by my hand, to meter out our length

in rhyme and time that stuttered, cried, and shook

to ring your ears and prove your diamond strength.

A halo is much better than a ring,

a paean, not the same old psalm to sing.