A little wittled fiddle plays for the dance done by the by,
Upon, anon, a worried wire, for which crazy cut doth vie.
Alack, looks like I'm losing, tip toe tap dance o'er the fire,
You may say son, seek sanity, well father, you preach to choir.
If I felt fear for being burned, as I have had before the storm,
My meager making might muddle more, conservative and torn.