by Joe Tessitore and James A. Tweedie
We are issuing a challenge to all poets to create poems that incorporate word homophones. Call it what you like, but we are calling it a Homophonic Poetry Challenge. Every poem should contain at least one perfect or near-perfect homophone. Puns, while not required, are encouraged. Although our own attempts have been humorous, serious homophonic poems are also a possibility. In any case, here are some examples to get you started. Note that the requirement for meter is not strict. Note that this is a challenge, not a contest. No winners. No losers. Just fun.
From Joe:
On Seymour’s Weight Gain
There’s more to see of Seymour,
So I see Seymour more.
The First Time I Saw Paris
When I got
an eyeful of Eiffel, I ful-
Filled a life-time dream.
Untitled
How much did that broad
on Broadway weigh?
From James:
Icy Eyes
A frosty Highlands sky
Caught Scots by surprise.
When asked, one man said, “Aye,
“I see icy eyes.”
Oui, Oui!
This little piggy went to Paris, and this little piggy went to Rome
I asked them if lattés in Bern
Affected them on their return.
And this little piggy went, “Oui, oui! We wee-ed all the way home!”
We are confident (and hoping) that you can do better. Place your poems in the comments section below.
Oh Yeah!
I saw a bare bear
and a hare without hair
on the stair – did I stare?
Oh yeah!
I spied with shy eye,
sidled by to go buy
underwear for the daring pair.
“Was it dear, deer?” they said
with cheeks blushing red
at the price tag they read –
Oh yeah!
But, I’m a doe in the know
with a dough-splashing beau
who never says no coz he’s fair.
A toad towed them home
in a cart with a groan
from a hoarse horse who waived the fare.
“Cheap! Cheap!” the birds cheeped.
“Bald! Bald!” bawled the beasts.
“Please! Please!” rose my pleas, “Spare a care
for the bare bear and hare without hair!”
Oh yeah!
Susan, You have put Joe and me to shame. Hopefully, others will do the same.
I’m sure I haven’t… I will do better
A tale of two tivs, by Joe Spring
Barry built a wooden tiv
and Billy bought a tin one,
and each one said he wouldn’t’ve
done what his friend had done.
Then Billy said “Look at my tin tiv!”
Said Barry “It’s pretty good!
If I had money I mightn’t’ve
made this here tiv of wood.”
Said Billy, “Have you thought’f
Trading yours for mine?
For now I think I oughtn’t’ve
gone to the shop and bought a tiv
when p’r’aps your wooden tiv’ll’ve
been really rather fine.”
Then trade they did, a tiv for a tiv
And happy they were to trade:
the one for the tiv the other had bought
And the other the other had made.
I couldn’t’ve said it better m’sel’.
Very cute and original.
this is incredible!! xoxoxo
From the unhumorous side:
One nightstand, that and just a bed.
One bare bulb, burning overhead.
Two lie there, nothing to be said,
in the glare of a one-night stand.
Subtle, atmospheric and clever.
Under the lamp-post stands a cute
Broad, whose angles are acute.
But if you want this honey, love —
You’ll have to cough up money, guv.
Could it be the lamp post light was red? (It
Dawned on me some time after I read it.)
Yes, she’s a lady of the evening.
Confusion
The constant, cruel cacophony can crush
My nerves at times and overwhelm my days —
I long for days when I’d enjoy the hush
Of forest walks that kept me from the glaze
That cataracts my mind when music, voices,
Such overwhelming sounds come from my choices.
The constant tugging, pulling, neediness
Of everyone exhausts me, makes a haze
Through which all light seems blinding bright — I bless
Those moments, ever-rarer, when I gaze
Upon a room of nothingness, where none
Is present, making their demands I run.
The constant pettiness that seems to fill
The days of everyone are like a blaze
Of heat, oppressing me. Do what I will,
Yet going through my days brings on a daze,
Where I cannot collect my thoughts, my self —
I feel a toy forgotten on the shelf.
On History
The restless river runs deep red
While on the bank the people glance
With love, make children, song, and dance.
They come, enjoy the festive spread—
The river tries to make a trance—
While on the bank the people glance
With love, make children, song, and dance.
While killing, stealing, crimes are read
As history—our only stance
Great criminals or weary chance
The restless river runs deep red.
While on the bank the people glance
With love, make children, song, and dance.
BAITED BREATH
I hear a soft pause in the pad of her paws
as I pray for the fate of her prey.
Oh, for a flaw as she skulks across floor;
the slam of a door near the pet I adore,
as I weigh up the scene for a way
to give you a tale where the mouse keeps his tail
when I’ve sent Kitty off of the scent;
that ripe rodent reek causing felines to wreak
mayhem for a week; no time to be weak
in this SHOO-WITH-A-SHOE event!
Holy Cow!!!
Susan, you are crazy good at this!!!
TOO much fun!
TWO I’ve done!
Time TO stop!
Simply amazing!! What a gift You have… and how You’ve developed it!
Okay, Susan. Touché!
“Sheesh,” she shed a tear upon the tier,
Which stood above the pier on which the Peer
(He was a prince) left finger prints (Oh, dear)
Upon the antlered carcass of a deer
That had been gently laid upon a bier.
“Let’s drink a toast,” he said, and raised a beer.
“To everybody here I say, ‘Hear! Hear!’”
I think you’ve just out-homophoned me, Mr. Tweedie – very well done!
I am, compared to ewe,
an amateur at best.
And “homophonic Sue,”
With ease, outshines the wrest.
Let’s see some more, folks—lame or tame!
Joe and James,
Hi. I did not write these two.
A noise annoys.
You scream. I scream.
We all scream for ice cream.
But I did write this one today.
The Flea and the Fly
A fly told a flea what to do:
“If you fly, keep that vent in your view.”
But the poor fly was ailing,
the tip unavailing.
It flew with the flu in the flue.
That’s evocative of Ogden Nash who wrote,
A flea and a fly in a flue
Were imprisoned, so what could they do?
Said the fly, “let us flee!”
“Let us fly!” said the flea.
So they flew through a flaw in the flue.
Joe and James, Wow! I just realized I copied the poem from my notepad incorrectly. Here is the correct version. Mark
The Flea and the Fly
A fly told a flea what to do:
“If you fly, keep that vent in your view.”
But the poor flea was ailing,
the tip unavailing.
It flew with the flu in the flue.
Mark and Mike, I can hear the sound of Ogden Gnash-ing his teeth, wishing he had written that one himself.
Can jelly fish?
Can Dan D. Lion make a wish?
Can a homophone phone home?
If I had a way to weigh
or overrate your lean cuisine
I wouldn’t say, “You overate!”
You wouldn’t say, “You’re being mean.”
The package picture is a palette
Greens and other lovely hues
But can it satisfy your palate
Is it something you can use?
I guess the food is complementary
Within itself but not to me
You’re beauty, though, is elementary
I am complimentary, see?
These are words I often get mixed up! Nice to see them used correctly.
Educative AND romantic. Superlative!
MOBY HIC (a whale-sized wail)
When I clapped my paws on wine
to pause and quaff, then start to whine
(with ale I pale and start to ail):
the only male I have is mail –
each night I crave the bravest knight
to write to me and put things right
to bear the burden I lay bare
to pay the fare to life’s fun-fair
to take the weight; I hate to wait…
he came at six – we ate at eight!
I’ll bare my sole soul if you can bear it…
You write like a dream…
Hairy Hares
A hare without hair is rare.
Most hares have hair to spare.
Bald guys may find it unfair,
But a hare with hair won’t care.
All’s Well That Ends Well
Deep in the wood there dwelt a bear.
His frame was spare, but his mind was good;
He foraged fruits upon his share,
And scrounged his fare as best he could,
So he had food — but none to spare:
When asked to share, he never would.
Then came a female bear named Mary
(Whose soul was sour, though her face was fair);
She scoffed that he should be named “Harry”
When in fact his hide was rather bare.
He tried to hide, his shame to bury,
Till he could find something to wear.
Mary grew merry at his plight
(Her heart was cold, she did not care);
She raided his berry stash one night,
A deed that no one else would dare.
This ruthless, cruel act of spite
Proved more than the spare bare bear could bear.
Now, despite his varied outward flaws,
He had true friends — a hart and hare
Who joined, with willing hooves and paws,
To chase that scoundrel far from there,
Who’d hurt their Harry without cause.
She fled to wrathful cries — “Beware!” —
And did not pause for time or tide.
Now finished with the sad affair,
Returning home, Harry espied
A she-bear shapely as a pear
Whom he desired for a bride,
Wherein his feelings did not err:
With joyful haste the knot was tied,
And jubilation filled the air.
Now side by side, with love and laughter
They share their happily ever after,
Wrapped in each other’s arms, rapt pair.
“Spare bare bear could bear.” As sweet and lovely as a ripe, juicy grapefruit!
I should have gone some time before
At three o’clock, or latest, four.
Instead, I now must make amends
By quickly searching for a ‘MENS’.
I now know that it is possible to laugh and groan at the same time!
Which witch
Made the whale wail
As the world whirled?
(This is actually an old example used in philology classes to help distinguish between aspirated and unaspirated “w”).
Dr. S, I love your wit. It triggered this:
He sought in vain for inspiration;
For greatness he had aspiration.
Alas, his only aspiration
Came in words like “perspiration.”
At last, attaining perspication,
He expired in perturbation.
It’s nice to have whit of wit.
Wet your blade before you whet it.
Don’t whine about the wine.
Put the whole thing in the hole.
I got a weal from rubbing that wheel.
He did play whist, I wist.
The middle three would be a good start towards a collection of homophonic aphorisms.
Tungsten – an element that weighs ten tongues.
Bandit, is my
prison sound? My
irons, are they
well-wound?
Here are not my
grounds grand?
Bandit, nor my
prison, sound.
Banded is my
prison – sound my
irons are. They
well wound.
Maybe it doesn’t quite fit the protocol, but the first and last stanzas are homophonic.
It fits perfectly! Nicely done.
Thanks, James. I later realized that “wound” is pronounced differently – and is a different word – in the first and third stanzas, but I guess it’s close enough to the exercise.
Read Writinghood
Once upon a time,
one Momaday,
I came upon a crime,
along the Hemingway;
the crime I couldn’t mime
was like a needle in a hay———stack.
In Atwood
(dark and Wilde)
a Woolf stood
(winked and smiled):
god-saint-self-person-false-unlikeli-likeli-hood
were ears, eyes, jaws, paws, claws, styles compiled but never mild———mannered.
Horsing around Djuna Barnes,
skipping along those Gwendolyn Brooks,
combing through treasured golden yarns,
poking around in textual nooks:
fancy-wise-kiss-ass kicked, punched, and drug by the tale of ancient crooks
and left in Paine among Robert Graves while Robert Burns the books———hop———down to the ground.
To part that Ishmael sea of Reed,
to be filthy, stinking, Adrienne Rich,
to be Jonathan Swift, to do that deed,
to Harold Bloom, to find that niche,
to plant that seed—indeed, succeed—
and with that Shakespeare scratch that itch:
but all at once and once and for all and all the while and why not because again and like always I didn’t use the right amount of weed———killer.
And I only and I only and I only and I only and I only———wanted———to Richard———Wright.
[Note: Published in Angry Old Man (2018).]
It’s fairy obvious here that many commenters have misunderstood what a homophone is; it’s not just a silly rhyme.
Cure-All
Whatever ails you,
Good ale won’t fail you.
The Fast Track to Weight Gain
No need to wait
While gaining weight:
Just stuff your pie-hole
And swallow pie whole.
Scholarship
A classic paradigm
Is worth less than a dime
If everybody knows
You have a Roman nose.
Kip Anderson is correct. Homophones are two semantically different words that have exactly the same phonic expression. Silly near-rhymes don’t fit the bill.
Perfect homophones:
feet/feat
sale/sail
tide/tied
whore/hoar
wrack/rack
shoes/shoos
waste/waist
Isadora asked,
“Is a door a jar?”
Or would it have been better to spell it out?
A door was ajar and
Isadora asked,
“Is a door a jar?”
Thank you for your clarity.
To you I raise my glass!
(That also is quite claret-y).
My last post was to Joe Salemi, for his Perfect homophones.
Thank you for your clarity.
To you I raise my glass!
(That also is quite claret-y).
Joe –
I’ve no idea what this is.
I squeezed my feet Into petite
Shoes. And it was quite a feat
But, laces tied, I rode the tide;
Within the hoar, became a whore
For soggy wrack from off a rack
Found sailing on the watery waste –
And filled the space within my waist.
Joe’s post reminded me
There is a place called Dore
That’s near my Sheffield door.
I live inland and sure,
In land there is no shore.
Where are you leading people, ‘Messers’ Tessitore and Tweedie ?? Into a procrastinators’ self-help group ??
This ditty was complicated to do: And still I carried on:
And still the big rhyme at the end is a phoney in the homophone stakes.
My guest is late, where can he be?
Each time, before he leaves,
I pour some tea of quality.
Last time, some leafy leaves
Got stuck outside, atop the pot.
Poor bloke. Before he went,
I rubbed the pot of goodbye tea,
But he, poor gentle gent,
Sneezed! Refused my good buy tea.
And now my guest is so far late
I check his genealogy.
O my poor mate, I’ve guessed your fate:
You’ve died of genie allergy.
And another one of mine was also not a homophone
“Thank you for your clarity.
To you I raise my glass!
(That also is quite claret-y).”
And so I learn, by having a go …
D, “Geneology” and “genie allergy” may not be perfect homophones but they are perfectly hilarious!
As for where are we leading you? All we did was hook a leash into your nose and put the other end of the leash into your hand.
Here is where my leash led me just now:
I loved a lass,
By her disdained.
And so, alas,
My heart is stained.
Farm Fresh
Farmer Brown had a grandson named Pierre,
Who was sent to breathe fresh dairy air.
When the lad turned out naughty,
The plan came to nought. He
Shoved Brown who went down with a splat
On his derriere in bovine scat.
Overcome by the smell,
Brown leapt up with a yell —
He sure made the boy scat after that!
Anna,
“. . . breathe fresh derrière.” lol Unfortunately, that’s the image that’s stuck in my head! I suppose that means your poem was a “bottom” line success! Thanks for adding to the collective wit and for spreading a smile.
Morning Mercies
by Daniel J. Davis II
The mourning dove speaks one soft coo.
The air feels cool as morning dew;
The purest breath I ever drew
Gives me more joy than I am due.
The sun has only kissed the air.
Its light awoke the baby hare.
The grass sways in the breeze so fair,
And flows like flowing angles hair.
The sky – deep blue; the trees – dark green;
The golden sun completes the scene,
And from this feast my eyes did glean
More glory than they’d ever seen.
Dan,
In the introduction to this challenge we wrote: “Although our own attempts have been humorous, serious homophonic poems are also a possibility.” Your poem has proven this point true. Nicely done.
Thanks Dan, your poem changes my view of the homophone that I would mostly have reduced to mere ‘pun’ in the past. I wondered if it only succeeds because it is serious among so many pieces that gurn and twist for amusing attention. Reading it with a fresher mind, it stands up to what I see as its straight forward intend.
Therefore I look at it in a different light and find that there are two issues I have with it. One is that I think there is a typo – that “angles hair” should be “angels’ hair” or even “angel’s hair”. Another is in the first stanza. Tagging the dove as “mourning” seems strained. There’s no indication in the poem why it is described as “mourning”. There is only the link to “coo” as though cooing is always mournful, which I don’t think is true.
But, Dan, you are getting this scrutiny from me because you have achieved a fine rendition of an uplifting feeling. Thank you.
Hello James (a tweedie (bet you haven’t had that homophone thrown at you since high school or lower!)) re “As for where are we leading you? All we did was hook a leash into your nose and put the other end of the leash into your hand.” Well said.
My response:
Being lead through the nose, as everyone knows,
Is as though you are led through a hole in the head
With a lead that can lead you
To what may precede you –
A lure to pre-seed you
And tie you and tye you and knot you to not-you,
Not whole any more, running circles round lead.
D,
Heh! I never thought of nose piercing as having a hole in the head! Funny.
Now we all need to match Dan with another “serious” homophonic attempt. Any takers?
By the way, mourning doves are a widespread and common form of dove (with the homophone linked to the title of Dan’s poem). As a “robin” I should think you have flown around in the same circles with them on occasion . . . .
James,
A “serious” attempt:
Pastoral Remedy
Since you left, I have been gazing
With a dreary, empty stare
At the fields where we were wont to spend our days,
Where the hungry flock is grazing,
Gaily free from earthly care,
Basking in the sinking sun’s last slanting rays.
In a daze, I rise up, quiet,
And on silent sole I steal
Down the stair, and swiftly hasten to the field.
As I go, I wonder why it
Is so hard for me to feel —
Now my soul is steel; it seems it will not yield.
Surely, though, my heart is bleeding,
Aching, longing for release,
So I flop down in the evening’s dying glow.
Soon the sheep’s soft, rhythmic bleating
Lulls my troubled soul to peace,
And my tears begin their gentle, healing flow.
Very touching and descriptive. As your soul’s weeping I can clearly see the sweeping vista of the pasture and the soon-to-be sleeping bleating sheep!
As usual, you have written a fine poem shaped by an interesting and effect metric. I hope you feel good about this poem, because it made me feel good, too! I only hope that others are still following the thread and will have the pleasure of reading it as well. Thanks.
Hi James, different country here, don’t have mourning doves. And the American and British robins are very different.
Thanks for pointing out that mourning doves are widespread on your continent. We can withdraw that part of my comment on Dan’s poem.
Very true. Your British Robins (such as Hood, Leach, and, of course, D) are quite distinct from ours (Williams, for example). Also, I am glad to hear that British doves are happier than ours.
A Semi-Serious Poem
Opposites Attract
My address is down-west Manhattan
You live in Toledo.
You wear a dress of faded satin,
I wear a tuxedo.
Your sense of fashion’s bad-assed wrong,
I’m into fashion week.
My sense of what’s in style is strong
Your eye for “chic” is weak.
I travel with my own chauffeur
I’m into Tori Amos.
My Metro-style is trim faux fur
My stylist is famous.
You can’t afford a Jag-u-ar
You drive a Ford 150
You think “First Rate’s” a drag, you are
Convinced George Strait is nifty.
Like Michael Jackson I prefer
To wear one kidskin glove.
And I (‘cause you’re not hip) refer
To ours as “ragtag love.”
Thank you, James, for your kind feedback. Now, with this semi-serious poem I’d yours, I’d say the whole homophonic gamut has been covered, from punny to serious to in-between.
I particularly like your more challenging rhymes (Manhattan with satin and so forth), and you sure have a knack for “manufacturing” homophones (prefer/hip refer, glove/ragtag love, etc). Thoroughly enjoyed your poem.
Two more with potential:
Beer/bier (Draw near, my dear. Bring a beer to my bier …),
and amuse/a Muse
A Royal Getaway
Act I
She hid a yawn behind a fan
With dazzling jewels on it
Each time a suitor came in sight,
And one by one they earned her spite,
Until one hopeful got it right —
He won her with his sonnet.
But things weren’t quite as they’d appear:
His peasanthood, once hidden,
Was soon found out. The old king roared,
“He’s not a PEER!” So her adored
Was ushered out at point of sword.
Their union was forbidden.
Act II
To ward him off, each gate they barred
Lest he should slip inside,
But nought could make him hesitate:
The bard pressed on with measured gait
Toward the palace and his fate —
To claim his lovely bride.
“Who says a princess can’t elope?”
Her servants heard her say.
To represent her royal head,
She crowned a cantaloupe instead
And left it in her vacant bed
So she could sneak away.
Act III
A frayed knot on her window bar…
Some footmarks on the ground…
The king asked, “Have we foiled their plot?”
A servant shook his head, distraught,
“Oh no, Sire, no; I’m afraid not!”
— The pair was never found.
Anna,
“jewels on it”/”sonnet” and “a frayed knot”/”afraid not” are my two favorites.
You most certainly have the know-how to tell a darn good story, too!
So, in conclusion, could it be that our challenge has reached a grand finale with a serious poem written with the poet’s tongue planted firmly in cheek?
If so, then perhaps it is time to summarize the hole end ever:
One day Joe and Jim started a merry search
For something the SCP folks could research
For homophone poems we yearned across miles
And those who wrote poetry earned a few smiles
What once we began with the dew of the morning
Now ends with a final adieu and with mourning.
Yet each poet boasts, since the whole wide-earth heard
That on “Popular Posts” we are now listed third.
After my first taste, I had to come back for seconds
But you gave me minutes, and hours, and days,
months, weeks, and years
My clocks turned to calendars
My spoonfuls to plates
, my my’s to {h}our’s and back again to days
weeks
months
and years
time passed with you
by then away
Our years turned back to months, weeks , days
Our {h}ours turned back into my’s
My plates to spoonfuls, I couldn’t take a bite
My calendar fell, my clock stopped.
Could you please come back for seconds?
Homophonic poetry
I read the title and saw red,
Homophobic poetry?
It could only be mean
It could not be right
What could it mean?
So I continued to read
As I was curious to see what others did write
But was further confused
By, “A bare bear that needed underwear”
Not to mention “a hairless hare,”
Upon my word, what rabbit hole is this,
I have well and truly fallen in, I wandered
as my befuddled brain wondered,
Flummoxed I adjusted my spectacles
And I looked again
Oh homophonic poetry, not homophobic
I nearly made a spectacle of myself
Well who knew
But for me it is really nothing new
Good grief I got the brief wrong
Glad I am alone in my living room,
Oh well, I had a whale of a time
But English is my second language!
Perhaps I should have left this in my living room. Sorry I could not resist.
This exercise is so much fun.
Even if fools(like me) are always destined for a fall…
I am glad I have found this site
thanks to my poor eyesight
I now have such great poems to read
and hopefully one day might improve
and have something worthy for all of you.
Mia,
Welcome to the SCP. I’m glad you didn’t leave everything in your living room! Hope to see more of you in the future.
The Cobbler’s Sign
DROP OFF YOUR SHOES OR BOOTS TO BE RESOLED!*
*If left past thirty days, they’ll be resold.
One little teacher…
One little teacher went to mark it;
One teacher took it back to class
Found on her desk a place to park it;
Wrote in the margin a red ‘PASS-
You must be in the market for a fluted champagne glass!’
Pears That Are Appealing
A pair of pears peered into space,
As someone tried to pare their face.
As their face became a peal,
The pair of pears gained their appeal.
An Australian perspective:
If little Johnny Howard be our greatest cricket fan—
the Merv Hughes would-be would be, mind, more armchair critic than
seasoned player— I would share with him my wish for 2020:
Bring it on—The Tests, One-dayers , BBL and Twenty20!
(John Howard, one-time longtime Australian PM, declares himself a true “cricket tragic,” and on one occasion in a practice demonstration of his unique bowling technique famously failed to find the pitch.)
O Deer, thou lissom spirit of the wood
I see you now a-leaping in a free way!
Oh dear. If I was you I never would
Have leaped into the middle of the freeway.
William, Very cute. I particularly like the phrase, “a-leaping in a free way!” It may or may not be inspired but at the very least it is very clever!
Thanks James. I now think I should’ve put ‘thee’ instead of ‘you’ in the second line and ‘if I were you’ not ‘if I was’ in the third, but that’s the price for rushing in, I guess.
William, Second thoughts are marvelous things. But consider poor Evan. Half the time I submit a poem to be posted here I immediately send a second email ask him to replace it with a revised version!
As I was writing my reply to your poem the phrase “may or may not” suggested an idea. Here is what just came of it—six homophones and one homograph in six four-beat lines. I’m glad you have been sucked into the fun.
A politician may or may
Not call themselves a “pol.”
But in the primaries each May
Our mayor will check their latest poll
Each hour. A head count helps them see
If they’re ahead or lost at sea!
Oops. Typo. Should be “five homophones . . .”
Another case of second thoughts! Lol.
Yes fair enough about second thoughts. I also had a second thought about my second thought – after ‘but that’s the price for rushing in, I guess’ I should’ve said ‘as with that poor deer.’
may or / May our / Mayor – I’m impressed!!
…but isn’t line 2 three beats? what about ‘Not choose to call themselves a ‘pol’ ?
Good catch, William. I wrote it on the fly and clearly (inadvertently) shifted the meter in the process. I like your correction-suggestion. “May your” New Year be a spectacular one!
PS: After a quick search it appears as if this is your first contribution to the SCP site. I hope it will not be your last!
There will be more from me I’m sure. Seems a bit like a spiritual home for me but also a bit like that bit in one of the Madagascar films where the zebra character from a New York zoo suddenly finds himself in Africa in a herd of other zebras exactly like him and it feels a bit weird!
Here’s mine..
I stared at the stair with the one that won the wonder of wandering award.
She didn’t like what she saw and that made her sore like a saw had been at her eyes. I’s and me’s and usses stopped looking.
There were lots of nos when her nose shrugged like that and god knows what happens when that happens.
Time and thyme are a good antidote
For what seems to be fraying seams in the after note
She’s afraid and a frayed seam doesn’t tear well or fare well or make the tare well.
I see an icy face full of wear and tear, from showing her wares and shares.
Woe is me and woah to she.
ha!