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.