Concede this: that for all my love of forms,
My stubborn treks upon unchanging ground,
My rigid steps, my hands that cling to norms,
That someone else (or sometimes I) have found;
I will not speak of everything cliched.
Some of your muses have eschewed their blessing
And curse from me. There is enough that’s played
To give what should be enough for addressing.
And should you seek from here some lofty claims
Some lesson that somebody should abstract,
Or some reminder that games are just games,
Worthless number upon meaningless fact,
A voice from the crossroads of work and play–
You might just find me with nothing to say.