This town and half the people in it
Grow more irksome by the minute.
Consider how the verbal sketch
Of someone’s minor lapse can stretch
With each re-telling ’til, forsooth,
It snaps beyond the frame of truth.
Yet few among the townsfolk heed
The scheming act, the shabby deed;
On heeding, do they deal a blow
To fell the errant sinner? No!

I’d move away, but then, where to?
All towns are one – and saints are few;
And caves are lonely. Lackaday!
I think I’ll stay.