Those haughty words that I re-arranged well
I did so scheming that women might swoon,
Provided they saw my full head of hair,
The aquiline nose, and lift to my brow.
Hope against hope the truth can be told now:
I blew that smoke like an old man's stogie,
And as for all of my gallivanting
I have no favorite postcard memory.
But to my surprise I can finally hear
The pause as well as pitch from the sound,
The wind before whatever it rattles,
And silence from what I spewed or wrote down.