J:   I whet my wit to 

         cut the witless. Fear not, if 

      thou be wittéd too. 

 C:   Wittéd and whetted though I am         

           I should not like to spar one bit       

       I’d likely end up cut to pieces         

          As you casually clean your rapier wit 

J:   Touché 

~

Rave On, John Donne, I Have to Mow the Lawn 

In fertile fields the wild oats you sowed,

Maidens reaped by witted scythe, lyric voice,

Innocent head or heart, their gift of choice,

While I my sunnied lawn have weekly mowed.

Newly wed, my true pledge and I,

Abed, did one another vie to best

Each other in such warm and sweet caress—

A gift of Ecstasy before we sigh,

A glimpse of Paradise before we die.

But now we vie to offer love with more

Of what our aging hearts do truly seek—

Which of us, thee or I, this summered week,

Will clip the wild blade, ted’ous summer chore,

Thereby earn the other’s love, one week more.