The spindle also turns

This is where, on occasion, I get to wax lyrical, and floors, where the pine scented, spine dented, back of my troubles are,

Where, because I have an audience measured in inches and newtons, I can say the thing I like to say, where words tip up and trip up and make no sense,

And I get to have that irritating poet cadence: the falling off of sentences, like Cantonese (listen to Jackie Chan with subtitles on), where the smelly curly haired twat invests his piss-poor scansion with import and meaning just by trailing off,

Am I making any sense? (no, don't think so)

Boo bollocks.