In the daylight, in the night,
My favourite reference in my hand.
In the net and in its might,
My favourite resource always can.

In my truthness, in my dome,
My favourite dictionary comes.
In my bedroom, in my home,
Yes, Wiktionary saves my ***!

I see the beauty flowers show;
imagine in the wild—
My oversight before July
had been a blindness mild.
The beetle brought her grandness by
erupting sight untold—

Forgiveness ties Regret in woe,
especially Today—
for shall a Foe toe through a Row,
express Itself not may.

And whence bewatched the timing spare,
Below should postings go—
but upside-down the Turtle's lair,
as only One would know.

For every poem you write about rich,
write ten more,
each about poor.

For every song you sing about rich,
sing one hundred more,
each about poor.

For every story you tell about rich,
tell one thousand more,
each about poor.

The blueish painted butterflies
Renewed—but two—as soot cocoons.
Their tapping hues were kindly passed
To swingers (tutti) both attuned.
Too true, as dozenth roots of two
ingrained in Sound; no one immune
from the ever-known, ever-asked
Desire–Envy in the noon.

Step by step,
With a gorgeous plié,
Kick some pep
Into a battement jeté.

A toy brought to life
During a winter dream,
Wining a mice fight,
Becoming king and queen.

Graceful and white,
Perfection is seized,
A swan's flight,
Applause from the pleased.

All these to treasure,
To hope for, but first
Have the right measures
And break the weight curse.

Do not eat much
And practice all day,
Have the right touch,
Get that perfect cambré.

Pointe for pain
And chukkers for luck,
Just hide those blood stains
And redefine pluck

When all the joints hurt
And toes can't be touched,
When all one has heard
Is Tchaikovsky's crutch...

So proceed and endure,
Feel pain and relief,
Prokofiev's pitch contour
To be ones only belief.

Let all this be forgotten
When the curtains rise
And show all this works gotten
Perfection for a prize.