Late for my own damned bus

All the links to Poetry Bus participants this week are on the previous post. Click here if you like to click, or scroll down.
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So Sunday I made this poem, see, with all those verification words, just like I promised.
And then Monday I took the paper with the poem, and the entire list of words, and put it in my pocket.
And the paper fell out of my pocket and I got to work and didn't have any poem at all. So in the evening I sat, and pondered, and had a glass of wine, and came up with another poem. A shadow of its former self, but the ghost of the first one kept hanging around and it was hard to jump the track and go somewhere else entirely.

This morning with my new poem securely in a different pocket I walked to the bus stop, and what did I see on my way but a sad, damp, sheet of paper, folded in quarters, covered with sand and grit, ink runny from spending a day in the rain. My poem! Waiting for me! Here it is.
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The Philopoper
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Oh, Grand Master
What is the way
how shall I live
what does life mean?
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Piverken your unses, my son
life is alikete, and sarsit
we are all fofarins.
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I hear you, Grand Master
and yet I wonder
I hesitate
will you tell me the way?
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Relanter, it is Turreday
pause for the vingnom ingsoa
amunses mislead
beware the goolach.
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Your words enter my ears, Grand Master
I am pink with admiration
and humility
you are so wise, so learned
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Spinge!
Spinge always!
Make it your byword.
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Yes, Grand Master
er, yes, I will spinge as best I can
I will take my leave now, to ponder this news.

Pricyth.

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