Saturday, May 11, 2013


A word such as "Tis" is enough to make
One think that the author is but a fake,
And seeks only to impress and flatter
Those who hear him while he grows much fatter
Off excess tax and revenue's well earned
By those who do market what some have spurned
As the verbose verbatim in ill verse
That leads to an early death and black hearse.
But I know "Tis" to be but a small word
Made up in the mind of the great herald
Of musical poetry found in lines
Most lyrical, and by which a maid pines
After the one who speaks the word to her.
For "Tis" is but 'is' and 'it' in a sure
Annotated format from England's glen
Made up by Authors and great poets when
Much hate and loathing for French made speaking
Prompted men to reshape their way of thinking
By which they thought all thoughts worth while to think;
Yet still it exists and wont leave if we blink.
Words may outlive their time or place of fashion,
Cease to communicate man's pent up passion,
Fail to please the ear or the mind within,
And be thought of only as a mere has been,
But still they exist for those few brave souls
Who seek to shape and to fashion new goals
Which cannot be expressed by our own thoughts
And can only by "Tis" be known as they ought.

Tis, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2013

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