i wrote by rote a rhotic

recitative; hard pressed

to err on larger ardor—

boasted, lauded, packed

the operatic larder full

of murder, parlor tricks

and slaughter, things

bought with coinage caught

in crafty audits, men in

hats high on dilaudid,

cigarette holders and cold

cod fish sandwiches—but i

digress, the rest wrote

its mess itself, like

ghosts in distress, penned

in penultimate finesse,

now, lest i stress too

much to impress, i offer

you this—the music in

sheets, the melody sweet,

it's nearly complete,

so just pay me—tout suite!