Abstract
Forgive me, Lord, for all that is to come. Humility isn't easy. I am a product of my age, and your rima's not for me. Rhyme Royale's too much too. (I sought constraint before. The work remains, as yet, unknown to most, though findable on the Net.) We post-Postmodernist Americans like meals pre-cooked, in someone else's pans, swallowing a lot; but since we're not chewers, I'll honor English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. (The name hangs from my lips as from a dog's, the deadest thing dug up, but my tail wags....) We've been sound-bit, and couplets might well suit these epitaphic days of ab and glute.
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