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.