The scratcher dances in my clasp
by lowing dazzle of the black.
It’s always at this tick n’ tock
that zing and zang intrude my thought.
I often scratch of sigh and swoon,
of empty beds and tearful woe.
Let none of this cast influence
on how you think I daily roam.
This scratcher does what it desires,
I’m here to but translate
its zing and zang in to a form
to which we can relate.
So eye upon me not with mourn,
for what I scratch ain’t what I roam.
And think me not misfortunate,
for sigh and swoon I’ve come to know.