Every line here circles the same question: when is the right moment? The speaker starts with the senses and basic acts of living: saying, doing, touching, hearing, wanting, tasting. These are things we do without thinking, yet the repeated "when" turns them into small dilemmas. Timing, not the act itself, becomes the problem.
Then the poem loosens up. The rhymes arrive in clusters: sing, wing, sling; hop, chop, stop. The sound starts to run ahead of the sense, and the speaker seems to shift from careful hesitation to something more playful, even reckless. Wing it, sling it, chop it, stop it: the verbs get rougher and quicker.
The final line breaks the pattern. "When to dye it red" is the only one that adds a colour, and it feels like a decision to be bold. Red could suggest passion, anger, or danger; the poem doesn't say. The mood is restless, teasing, and a little defiant.