If life I taste, I’ll build my waist,
but being chaste, I’ll be high placed,
by those so based, who choose the graced,
them so braced who make good haste.
But joy’s misplaced, ignoring paste,
a sauce does baste, all that’s placed,
thus, if I raced, it’ll be a waste,
a chance replaced, entombed, encased.
Though such a waist, would mean I’m chased,
would mean my space, would be debased,
yet interlaced, with social face,
will make my waste, thus no retrace.
So, waist or waste, what to emplace?
To be embraced, or doubled spaced?
Such troubled place, to be so faced,
with such a case, called: waist or waste?