Regurgitating in Ětre.
The trouble with languages,
Are the improbably large,
Disparities in what is meant,
And what is said.
I tried French and Gaelic,
But couldn’t quite install.
All the memory chips,
I had needed to compute.
Conjugation of verbs is naff,
When I’m thinking of Michelle.
And J’t’adore is my wave length,
Upon rhythmical currents flowing.
I tried to sing like Asnavour,
Hoping that would accent more.
And the memories of Paris,
Came flooding without a clue.
Down in the Rhonda valleys,
Boyo!
My connection with nature,
Has no affect at all,
When I hoped for more,
Than the occasional Yakidar!
And even the sheep here,
Couldn’t help to elocute me.
Putting dim stopio in my progress,
And boeri brought a caustic blow.
But all in all,
When said and done.
I have learned a trick,
To help me run.
Just smile throughout,
And nod your head.
They’ll believe you knew,
Just what they’ve said.
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