Wake...

How say you, oh gentle Miss, does a fickle kiss-
too heavy for the winds to lift, with no affair of just how swift-
ever, possibly, find its way?

I cordially do, indeed- insist, the puckered creation did remiss-
settling in a grounded rift, with no despair for the wasted gift-
leaving it here to simply wither away.

Sing Along...

I'm a little teapot, short & stout... with a rubber ducky floating inside, screaming to be let out...