This’ll be wild. This’ll be milk. This’ll be prickled. This’ll seed, like silk. This’ll be Scottish. This’ll be a bee stop. This’ll feed finches. This’ll purple-pink top.

A pool of black, for writer or hack, To pour their imagination. Without a feather, to draw me fourth, I stay stoppered in stagnation.

I come without warning, sharp and tight, a twisting ache that steals your might. I visit some monthly, others at strain, what am I that brings this pain?

Take a musical instrument that is the embodiment of creating calm and beautiful environments with its softly-plucked strings. Now take an over-the-top form of satire that mocks someone or something. Take these two things that make people smile and laugh and merge them together to naturally get me, a weapon for hunting whales.

I travel faster than sound, but acoustics are not as profound. If you blink for a moment you might think i've gone, but worry not, I'll be back by dawn.