It was the gnome, I'm saying

Once again, 

 I find myself relying on my wits.

   The quiet laughter is appreciated.

Standing in a haphazard fashion,

 I prepare for excuses,

  ones which might bend the laws of physics,

   but not heartfelt honesty.

A voice of doom prods me along,

 "Gnome you say..."

Right.

 Time to use the charm.

You know it is going wrong when your honest face is recognized.

"How shall you be addressed?

  Jon, Roggie, or Tortoise?"

My suspicions grow.

Poetry police might be on my tale.

Names might also get me in trouble.

  You can't start yelling,

   " Ana,

      Papaya,

          please!"

Might not be poetry,

  but Tortoise?

It is all because of that damn gnome.