Tears Don't Need The Tale ...

When the bits, together, you can't baste,
It could be wry, aimed at the drear;
Or the aftertaste of the acquired taste,
That cut the haze clear.
It could be imbecile, or even vile,
Or what shook you, shaped your outlook;
In the end, what makes you smile,
Depends on the road you took.
But, streaks on faces, readily, wet your eye;
Can it be that grief has no sorts?
The immaculate, too, unknown to fight shy
Of this most human of warts,
Unless you are cold, or the sob is a sale,
Your tears, they seem not to need the tale.