When Terza Rima came to town that day,
The people gathering round to hear its words
Were stunned to find that it had nought to say.
It startled them that this could have occurred,
The last TR that came their way in June
Bespoke at length of prophesies unheard.
“Enunciate”, they cried, “announce, impart,
Give forth your words as treasured souvenirs,
Tell tale of lady fair or fierce autarch.
A soft breeze carried silence to their ears,
They waited bated hoping for the rush
Of noun and verb or cherished adverb dear.
Alas there was to be no message lush
No tale of woe or divine comedy
They turned away and left behind just hush.
A wild west wind blew Terza Rima by,
A blank page seeking stray shy syllabi.