Spending too long, as I have done, in teasing
Apart the petty meanings in dull words
Can turn upon itself and be displeasing
Hardening joy's milk into dense curds.
There are those who make of this poutine
And claim to love the accidental stuff;
But I, though teasing words is my routine,
Can't stomach this, and quickly have enough.
I love the grease that well-oiled words exude,
Fried in the pan of wit, and chopped with care,
But don't adore this fatty kind of food
Though my own efforts make sure it is there.
Therefore I will not eat my words with sauce
Though I produce it with each detailed gloss.
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