Threnody for Irony

Earnest nests won't fletch with fight feathers.
Thrash crash with daily resuscitations
fail harmony tests. Pass the salt,
I've thrown out my shoulder
and spilled the final spite shaker.

Mourning cloves and dark garments
toll smell bells, sing-dong, ding-wrong,
as middle-night hour strikes cynical irons
to remember the fleet sooted fireplace
where I once assembled pyres.

Panegyric criticism
must now meet the past;
from the snark and witticisms
I'll now forever fast.