If I had a beige pyjama for all the road I’ve read,
then the shoes I once beleaguered would be half a pint from dead.
Candles burning in the shower would have all but blamed away
so ten thousand million doorknobs could not hesitate to say,
“Put the sticks around the blender and the boys all in a fright,
for we’re going on a buttered ramp and we’ll all fray tonight!”