A-muse on-the-run

Why doesth thou depart
in mid-thought?
No tautologous treatise;
a clear, concise sentence
is all I sought.

How long do I
persist hither mediocre
rhyme;
Mend my verse;
thy esprit d'escaliers
confound me,
we are runneth out of time.

But must thee rather jest
at my bumbling behest:
sending in a stand-in…
That ignorant caddish kin
maketh my blood boil.
Hath thee no mercy?
This art a thankless toil!

Forsooth!
Thither dash the hounds;
they’d sniff thee out,
betwixt those brambles
and mounds.

Then thou brilliance
would step over
the broomstick
and let it be ‘nounced
“Playing fugitive
beeth much easier;
if it wasn’t for
those grey curs,
zounds!”