Or, Tag. Thou Artst It
It, so feebly wrung from
experience
A thing so fraught with
insignificance
a tell-tale told so led, sans
thought,
its Itness impossible to be
caught
It which is by description
described
As some That that is thereby
belied
A lie unlaid and left to lie
untold
Nor truth was left upon the
sill
It, a hairesy left upon the
tongue,
a spittin’ tickle from whence
it comes
A stench of some thing up from
the pit
The slime dark ordure of that
It.
poetastrophy 