Profession

I'm no professor, but I will profess
Garage, for me, always rhymes with barrage,
And I don't think the Dutch love sabotage,
The English loving Saxons even less.
When lovers love, confessors must confess
And dressers dress to undertake dressage.
We save three-year-olds first; this is triage.
Then do we save ourselves? What would you guess?

Does all this banter mean much, or not much?
Does this fill you with cynicism, scorn,
And terrible distaste, openly worn?
I never saw sabots worn by the Dutch
When I saw Leiden, but words are my crutch.
A word whirred, borne to me when I was born.