On the unsatisfactory merits of unbridled umbrage.

On the unsatisfactory merits of unbridled umbrage (or writing when I’m not thinking too much)

Stanza the First
The sagacious sentinel of sentences says “don’t wile away your wit with whittlers, let the terms of inner narrators dictate its own style and stride with dignity and mirth, not withstanding a moment of confusion, and wonder thrown in to flavor the feast.”

Stanza the Second
Frozen fiddles flying into the faces of future fireman,
May present a prescient possibility to persnickety personalities, and
Gear them up to grouse and grumble about grammatical gimlets, and gerund generated jiggles.

Stanza the Third
I thinketh one taketh too much care about the minute moments of mind and magnify the irregular drifts of dust, while the storms of inspiration, and vision are ignored in a fastidious fuss over fittings and fluff.

Final endza
Or as the devil may advocate, let not your mind be troubled by attacks to your acts, or slurs on your words, the myriad meandering of the lyrical piper will never be amendable to the corral of  correction, but unless the muse be tamed and tempered, it would never be known to the chaste and cloistered contingent of coercive comma cops.