Like rubbing wine stains into rugs, it’s my curse To try and make it right, but by trying make it worse All efforts for naught, and as your fire cools I’m what pervades, an errand of fools

I wear no skin yet bruise at dusk, I swallow stars and leak out blue. Birds borrow me without a sound, Storms write their tempers on my face. I’m always overhead, never held.

I am NOT what you'd expect to hear from an owl, For what purpose or reason do I lack a single vowel? Oh, English will be cruel if you let her, As for me I only have three, and two could be silent letters.

You might recognise me as a chip brand, Or a type of drum you'll hear in a band, When a stove is lit under me, I can shriek and shout Or what the pot was hypocritical about

I make important things stand out, on your face or in your notes.