The Drag of Ire

I reckon it's time
The leaves were gathered
And the hearts pitter-pattered
To the graceful way they fend.

For surely as we know,
Each story has told slow
That each fair maiden is sin.
How is this so? And so few know?

Let's begin an explanation.
Not mine, you see. Not I,
I plea, but all that's churning
Basically in my memory.

What new can there be
When simple between we
Gathers momentum and also
Redundancy?

Instead of an insight
To quell hearty long loftily,
Redeem the spoils of undeserving
Animosity. Gather the leaves.

With your rakes and your sieves,
Make men see our apathy.
When all it can be it's already free
And soon enough a corona empty.

Species in the wild deserve no less
Than a child's need in the lead.
A head to ward sentimentality
Can find much sense in fine'd mean.