Sitting, staring, watching the whole world travel on through
One curiously concentrated word at a time
‘Til upon her avid necessity to rhyme it would soon become fairly obvious, particularly paramount, that she may just need to rely
A pliers of sorts to nit-pick at the perfection offering itself on up
Also frightfully aware of an atrociously unwilling ability to transform the aforementioned into a God awful slew
Always walk the line with others in mind, my girl
And neither should you ever be afraid to swirl oh so dangerously close to the awe-inspiring enticement of that candelabra
Never, ever feel the need to envelope everything to a precious point of there being no real return
You see, as things turns out what’s precious doesn’t always sell
Your Odes left utterly ignored, dog-eared and crumpled upon some hapless editor’s floor – roving for all of eternity