Itinerant Bon Mots Balls

Poem fragments form the flimsiest bon mots,
Being foreign-born moths, unused to English sun,
they mistake it for the moon and navigate
most erringly and end up waxing wroth.
No dotage-hampered colt whose race is run
nor any whinny-jaded reprobate
anticipates a moth preserved as Goth.
There are none here: no mots preserved in amber.
They ambled, rambled, flew the coop and went
back where they came from or straight on to Ghent.

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