Fake Brittish Accent Poem by Jonathan Land

A quiet musing with you
in front of the fireplace,
sipping wine,
would surely lead to
something I cannot finger
walks slowly up my spine
when I think of
The way way you taught me how to
End up alone, I cried.

A thought, quietly but with no grace,
comes and goes faster than
I have the ability to grasp.
And yet, I am not insane,
No; No. I walk silently,
I do, but this does little to
constitute whether I am insane.
But, oh dear, I babble again.
What a pity.