Okay. Poetic attempt number one hundred and five (not that I’m counting).

What about borrowing a line or two of well-known poetry, just to get me started? And rather than being afraid of rhyme, perhaps I should embrace it fully. It’s worth a try, if only because everything else has been a disaster.

If I should die, think only this of me:

Bury me, not in some random cemetery,

But next to my true love, my Destry,

(Assuming she’s dead, of course. If not, that would be

A total disaster, an undeniable tragedy.)

I don’t mean that if she was alive it would be

A bad thing. On the contrary …

Excuse me while I stab myself in the hand with a sharp pencil.

Right. It’s official. I just have to hope that Milltown’s Got Talent impressed Destry enough because I’ve given up on poetry.

Actually, I think it’s given up on me.