Irritable Jumper

What did you think of my poem yesterday? I asked Pliny the Elder.

I didn't read it, he replied.

Go on, read it, I said.

He read it, slowly. Your lines are exceedingly long, he grumbled.

I wanted them to suggest the form of knitting, I said.

I doubt if anyone will pick that up, he said.

Your syntax is annoying, he muttered.

I was trying to evoke the prickling of my tongue, I explained.

My tongue is prickling reading it, said Pliny. So I suppose I must concede that worked. Your rhymes are execrable.

They're meant to suggest the simplicity of a 2 year old child, I bluffed.

As to your invocation of the venerable Socrates, and your subsequent rejection of his inspired advice, this is utter folly and nonsense. And why introduce Penelope?

Her weaving dilemma mirrored mine, I said. Anyway, I am still a bit confused. What do you think I should do with the poxy jumper?

I don't know! he cried, jumping up. Hang it in a stiff breeze! Boil it with a toad for all I care! Just stop writing all this agonising poetry! And out he went.

Right! I thought to myself. No new winter beanie for him! But what was that about a toad........?