O that sweet lack, that relief in the cracks
Once worrying at what was there before
Now I sigh at this yield to my attack
And my vexing enemy can't be sore:
It does not live, dead long 'ere our meeting
(Still well-curséd chance making me a cuss)
Hath neither breath nor blood in it beating
Yet a dark nemesis to each of us
If careless we are, unlucky, hasty,
This trite and trifling issue laying siege
For a time, times, half a time--all basely--
Until, at last! 'tis removed from the breach.
What this foe, this irksome kernel of truth?
'Twas the popcorn casing stuck by my tooth.