Jibbed, old hungers gnaw at your chance
arrival in gelidity. Gleed stirs up in you
my cutty-pipe image, and you laugh, louder
than required, adopting cachinnations as
a channel of expressing emotions that have
no business to be in our basket, as by now
I have peered you on the pentimento of
regrets. If this sounds cavalier, let me assure
you, I understand pain. It is my portmanteau.