I threw my hand at you
as if to snatch at you
and laughed at your betrayed mien;
(Ha!) I did not cease then.

You delivered a speech,
attempting to beseech,
but I sneered and howled
and at the edges of your mind, I prowled.

I spilled over your chalices of wine;
I'm sure they would have been fine,
had you tasted them from the depths of the floor,
though I do perceive your visage a bit sore.

And as I chortle and howl,
My stomach still hurt from the last foul,
You insisted on another pursuit.
And I profess, this is not moot:

You gripped me by the arms
And sent me quite alarms,
Staring into my eyes,
Halting all of my crooked lies.

And you walked away;
there was nothing left to say
as my chest flooded with a chill
that no hit, or laugh, or spill could possibly fill.