The Final Boon or Bane
Tilt afore yer wilt... hitherto, hid that hilt.. I bid fare thee well, where to? A no true scotsman's kilt have you worn, ties to kin torn... Weave or waive, a knaive's never to be reborn... Sly my slight sight, but set yours aright afore yer silt to sieve, then you grieve while others be bereaved... Say I must, no ace up your sleeve? Fay to dust, why did you not believe? Now heave after your reave! And row the heathen's raft, without draft, a home to the daft... Or be straight even if a'late, a man to prostrate and bow, without ruckus or row... My moon, a nascent crescent... Its light shimmers my lakeside... Then flickers and wanes, to crocked backs and canes... Off to the final boon or bane