One lacklustre morning,
the sun eclipsed by millions of pewter clouds,
I sulked in my room.
A manufactured collection of heterogeneous words
grabbed me by the throat and squeezed.
Euterpe, the cheeky muse of lyric poetry,
took a hike – shot off her mouth
to the first sympathetic person she met,
complaining that I wouldn’t come out to play.
I sighed (side, geddit?)
and gave honours to the wordle maker.