I cannot end well. Nor can I begin.
I'm good at middles though, or so I'm told.
Until, of course, they sudden turn cold
And start becoming ends. I cannot win,
For middles are not wholes, and I must gin
Up starts and finishes, or else they fold
Into themselves. And so I should be bold
And start and end: but there's more ways to skin
That cat, and I am always searching for
A prebuilt and prefurnishing beginning
Or nicely tidy ending to tack on
(Although sometimes I fear that that is sinning)
So that my middles will not anymore
Hang open at both ends and madly yawn.
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