Once upon a time, I had bruised slightly My fingerend in tying unneedful knots Too brutally. The knots were sonnets, Rhyming not gracefully, losing bout by bout Despite my careful tying. I had not Thought writing was so much like fighting. I stayed at it relentlessly tying tying tying Every musing, bruising blossom stylistically. The daisy-chain was for no one particularly (Or perhaps I am lying). You know how things get tangly When we practice firstly.... The lengthening string Of words got too stringy and self-involved in singing That should have taken flight more singly by whistling Unconcernedly and not too self-consciously.