Rue Poem

Strew on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of rue.
In quiet she reposes:
Ah! would that I did too! [Arnold]

I could pass no further along the road
‘I’m English,’ I said. The next thing said
Was: ‘Are you? Are you? Are you?’

Can add the ‘e’ ourselves.
The regret that roadblocks atonement
Is always precisely a third of the whole.