Jibbed, old hungers gnaw at your chance 
arrival in gelidity. Gleed stirs up in you 
my cutty-pipe image, and you laugh, louder 
than required, adopting cachinnations as 
a channel of expressing emotions that have 
no business to be in our basket, as by now
I have peered you on the pentimento of
regrets. If this sounds cavalier, let me assure 
you, I understand pain. It is my portmanteau.