The Final Boon or Bane

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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

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