O Meaningless

{In proper ink, not biro for once}
Why is my verse so brimming of new pride?
So full of variation and quick change?
Why with the time am I glancing aside
To new-found structures, and arrangements strange?
Why write I in a round, never the same,
And overuse invention in the text,
That no words mine do ever tell my name,
Shifting their style, not knowing whither next?
O Meaningless I always write of you,
And you and gibber rest my argument:
So all my best words lack cohesions through,
Spending for first what has been never spent:
For as the sun is daily old and new
We bring you "Famous People On The Loo."

Damn, I lost it at the end! Oh well, I guess it's back to the old biroid lifestyle.