Madam, your manners unman me, almost.

It is gently thought, to tell me of one

We both know, who recently, and near,

Praised me to you for what I had done

For whom, woman? Good God, done what?

Your graciousness may report a fame,

But would not draggle it in its cause,

Nor demean my pride with a mere name.

But I have none, since your sweet pursed

Elderly lips gagged it with a smile.

And I smile. I shall suffocate.

I am eaten with eleventh-century bile.

Tell me tell me tell me tell hag.

Never mind. The timing is off.

Good manners, lady, is timing it right.

You needed only to emit a cough

To get my attention, and blink, nod,

But you spoke, unthinking what for.

Love has been murdered ways enough.

Yet kindness is your one kill more.