Protocol! Thy Wretched Goose

Protocol! Thy wretched goose
Always an errant spoil throws loose
Strict rules for not merely those civilized abodes
But, for all whose manners suffer, I offer this ode.
When beckoned winds and all the ‘lil wee faces
Change the pace from grace to races.
And friends and foes, ev’n temper’d folk, speak slow
One’s afire, one’s aglow,
Flags of truth, spark a truce.
As reason dictates the angle obtuse.
A Moment demands a Time in which,
“Three spaces in three places they fit.”
But where to seek such a protocol?
Incredulous though it may seem to all,
Three points in space and one in time is all you need,
To follow all the protocol one could ever hope to heed.