[floccinaucinihilipilification, sphygmomanometer, boondoggle ]
An Elegy on Lost Love
My dear, sweet love, the very paradigm of beauty,
Hath left me now, and stolen my heart's booty.
My soul is thus acclumsid, my thoughts almost commensurate,
With those of souls who sigh and then defenestrate.
My gamut of emotion thus, myself a ninnyhammer,
I spout this gobbledygook, and cry, and stammer.
This end was unexpected, a paraprosdokian:
I had expected joy, but got an instaban.
But no, I shall not fret, nor seek an interregnum
Betwixt the tyrannies of sorrow and regret.
I shall not beg forgiveness, nor ask for explanation,
But simply will accept her floccinaucinihilipilification.
Nor do I seek your sympathy or eleemosynary gestures:
I turn my back on charity and all its sickly vestures.
I shall accept my fate, my plaintive cries shall peter,
Lest vexing thoughts o'ertax my sphygmomanometer.
My darkling heart, once such an abditory,
I'll open wide, and not conceal my story.
Nor shall I justify myself with some fanfaronade,
But rather soothe my injured heart with lime and lemonade.
No longer shall I seek to win the hearts of maids:
I'm done with these boondoggle escapades.
On this I am resolved, I openly declare …
But hang on—who's that pretty lady over there?