'It's not in your typical fashion', say you.
Well, good sir, kindly explain!
I'd very much like you to
Pick apart my very brain!
You see, I am alone with my thoughts
More than you are with me
So, you have said more than you ought
To have- a bit tongue in cheek
And if you ask me - which I am -
Me. I am me, not you,
'What is your typical fashion?'
I would reply: 'What do I do?'
To which, accordingly, say you:
'A poet, of course, by any other name,
A lyricist, and a novelist, too,
If you liken each the same'
In turn, I would scoff
And ruffle my hair,
'My dear friend, did I not ask you,
what I don't and dare?'
To which, being your witty self,
You would respond with a smile,
'You apply yourself to bookshelves,
Is that not your style?'
'My fine fellow, indeed I do,
But you're missing the mark,
You did ask me, untrue,
A statement of remark?'
''Tis not your typical fashion'
Say you! Not who or why
Twas a claim, my disposition,
Did fancy your mind's eye!
A poet is not 'do',
Despite your quick retort,
A poet is 'who'
Or 'how' of sorts!
'Oh, I should have never spoke'
Say you, cheeks puffed so red!
'A poet will choke
Every word till they're dead!'
And I, with great breath
Might liken a smile,
'Now, which to the death?
The poet or the style?'
Ears alight with frenzy
You counter my drawl,
'Tis you who has slain me!
The poet brings death to us all!'