I thought in neither ribaldry nor play

I caught those   ten fried  rhymes on dying ebb
And so I would not jump nor fight today.
But  then I thought of Adam’s  folding rib,
And how the hard enjoy a lady's  fry

I believed  scored rhymes  were  left  for dead.
My incompetence was on its languorous bed.
But then we  felt  old  fleas that bit us good
And lo I  sought to  buy piss off the  web.

I thought no bird could ever  click  its beak
And so I fell into a writer’s wok
Bad eyesight made  the   grilling chickens leap
While I prised  the deadheads  off  the crocks.

I thought I’d incite ribaldry  or play
Dutch cows I love, and I  am thrilled by hay.