Ripping off the Belle of Amherst after hearing on NPR that Hemingway shot himself because he could no longer write

For Mercy is a passion presst,
Beyond the fleeting gale.
She waltzes like a girl distresst,
Puking in a pale.

And, Liberty with lock so small,
Afore the fingers long,
Which prattle at a broken gate,
With ventricle in song.