Play

I say, a day sans a soupcon of play,
and this is no cliche, like a soiree
of sex sans foreplay, or roll in the hay
sans sense of the risque, is to fall prey
to a mind’s souffle manque of dismay.

Nay, to replay in yet another way,
or I dare say, like a mayday melee,
I fall in a fey display and sashay
away in a mind ballet most blase.

OK, OK, sans delay, to assay,
and nay, not to go astray and inveigh -
the bouquet array of this play parfait
is to bray a mind’s buffet of hooray.

Sonnet portray? Pray, nay. But, what the hey,
in this wordplay, I DJ the last say.