Sonnet P

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.