Bated Wit or Dillusioned Banter
How much I mean it when I rue regret!
Too late, my conjured comments of such wit.
To be admired by my peers, but yet
I turn around, alone the stairs I sit.
If only I could rewind time for naught,
I would not be alone on empty stair.
The perfect riposte that my tongue hath caught,
Hath passed my lips too late for friendly care.
“Your mother is a hamster,” yes it's true!
“Your father smelt of elderberries,” ha!
But none of these shall know my peers' review,
Nor shall they look at me with wondered awe.
But yet a smile doth creep across my face;
I know next time these words shall be my mace.
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