Ah, the rash poet


     Having another go at


      Sounding glib or even shallow


       While expressing his heart's depth


        Like expressing pus from a boil


       Trying to make it appear marshmallow


        Holding at bay his own mortal breath


         Wrapping nuggets of meaning in pretty word foil





     One must, I feel, at times step out


    From the shell under which, like a terrible lout


   He has hidden his light


    From foe and from friend


     Blow the trumpet, blow it low, from your depth


      Not heavy, not strong, not weakly, nor light


       Not softly, and certainly don't blow hard


        Save your breath