Gambit Highs Poem by Mark Heathcote

Gambit highs form, part of the lowly?
That has a humble, authentic-technique
When too restricted are dire to fail
Lose all the wind in their mainsail.
Worded too many, or a word too few
Too many syllables encountered undue
Shall, reason our rebuked withdrawals
From, lines not worthy of any laurels.
…Tumbling forth without any morals
The nostril steam of a horse as it chortles
Like drug addicts past all critique
Perfected habits are what we seek.