(With abject apologies to the few, brave, and fey who have mastered the villanelle.)
My temperomandibular is shot. No shit. It's history.
Some 60 years of hoof in mouth have left me in this quandary.
If you could see my teeth and jaw, it wouldn't be a mystery.
I need to get me hence (to either nunnery or sistery),
and silent be, alone and still, my tongue no longer wandery:
My temperomandibular is shot. No shit. It's history.
They wouldn't stay in place, my bones, so powerful and glistery,
but moved at will (and willfully), all hithery and yondery:
if you could see my teeth and jaw, it wouldn't be a mystery.
I click and clatter and complain; well, frankly, I'm off-pisstery!
Of speaking, chewing, yawning, kissing, I'm no longer fondery.
My temperomandibular is shot. No shit. It's history.
And nothing helps, not quacks, not crack, and, hell, not modern dentistry.
No wonder in this fix a woman gets a little ornery.
If you could see my teeth and jaw, it wouldn't be a mystery.
I need to stop this belly-aching; open up a ministry,
or off myself (and come back as a slack-jawed, brain-dead blonderly).
My temperomandibular is shot. No shit. It's history.
If you could see my teeth and jaw, it wouldn't be a mystery.