There is no accounting for haste,
when I’m needlepointing my debate.
You were betrayed in the square;
how often, I didn’t agree with you,
didn’t fit like Tetris.
I found in the surroundings,
a renown for ground optics,
cobbled together with the same care
as pink slime meat,
a meeting of the minds,
a mask made à-la cheapskate.
When there is no accounting for taste,
I’m papier-mâché-ing my hate.