Poem

It nags; it nags; it nags.
Burns a blister in my soul,
Itch the nook I cannot reach
Scratch the sore I cannot close.

As a casement pried by Howls
That, sleep about to fall,
Yanks a would-be dozer,
Breeds yawns these days all

‘Tis a canker on my tongue
Or a burr inside my throat
It is the thought that burrows
As the termite it does rot.