Th' dreadfu' web o' circumstance: a sonnet

'Tis lang, o'erlang, I've waitit, makin' maen. A sufferin' lass wi' ample seat, less wheels, But nae mair can I rest, fair feshed, alane. This sturdy frame an unco' rough road feels!

Aiblins I'd hop frae lad tae lad, like some Fair lasses, mimicin' wee blastit fleas, Oor act th' cricket, guidmon's haerth tae warm, But och! twa legs, nae six, an' puir tae please.

Forgie th' road an' hame, then. I'll gae root mysel' an' crookit graw, like some auld tree. I'll hang mysel' wi' oranges, temptin' fruit... An' laddies then shall twine an' clamber me!

Nae wheel, nae hoppin' heicht, nae ripened gold... Och, wae is me, nane hae I; I, nane hauld!!!

That wis muckle guid fun...thanks!

--Cuilionn