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