03 February, 2010


With a mild time elating
To the hard held rhyme abating:

Can the fisherfolk tell of woe
When the seamen have cried of so?

'Ere the well placed game of shatter
Breaks the long held space of matter
So the beer-filled cans of batter
Shake the ever emptying platter.

What can portions do to focus
All the missons in the locus
While the fashions of the portal
Remain the honoured plains of chortle?

Card the missiles in the lie
Place the shuttle in the rye
Speak no more of broken reeds
And tell not glasses wearing tweeds.

Place the making in the battle
Churn the little wearing cattle
Force the gate among the wait
So that the rate will not be great.

Will the lay-man hear the whistle
Of the yodel in the thistle
Or the portens in the while
Where the broad leans over tile?

Bake no pie
Shake not lye
Cream no tie
In the sigh.


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