This is a random poem I wrote in fake Early Modern English that does not yet have a title. 😃

Every bumbling creature

Hath some semblance of a wit,

Without he have a startling lack

Of reading nor hath writ.

*

My etiquette hath flown from me, 

On shaft of learned self-import.

Return, return, I prithee!

Before thy absence disgrace me like a wart.

*

Thy polished glove be courteous, 

Thy smile quite as slick.

But what of this? 

I trust thee not —

Thy cunning little trick.

*

Though my gesture may lack courtesy,

Though my ways be uncouth,

Conscience and a moral heart

Are kingdom and the truth.

*

But alas! 

See this disgrace.

I decry this lowly slip.

Such a word

Hath scarce a place:

’Tis but a stumble of the lip.

*

Fear not these trials thine,

Deluge of smallest putters-off:

Thy mind doth glow; thy heart doth shine!

Thy lack is but a little cough.

*

Pretense is great;

Indeed I squirm —

This highfalutin lie innate!

I find relief 

In earthen worm

Who scarcely wakes up far too late.