wisp is lisping, wisp is lisping

– It is not the unimportant wisp that would speak to you in token syllables.
(And all the time you are complaining complaining: wisp is lisping, wisp is lisping.)

We could tell the wisp to shut its trap, but where would that get us really?
The wisp could pretend to not listen to us, adding insult to our injury.

– It is the will in the innermost aspect of the wisp that will murmur keeping the murmur available.
(What murmur, you say, it’s just a buzz, a cacophony of the buzzical kind.)

We could try once more, to shutten its trap, no guarantees on how far we can get.
We have tried before, as you very well know, our expectations sorely not met.

– This this this; morn morn (felt as if this morn is guided by a shine that flits.)
(There you go, you say, it’s lisping again, can someone not make the lisping stop?)

Raucous though the lisping may be, it remains but a harmless wisp.
Cantankerous indeed the wisping might be, ’tis but a lonesome lisp.

This entry was posted in Poetry.

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