Why trifle with this thing of prose
where words are beaten into heart
and weathering, withers to english pose
perhaps it better suit the part
a reign, I meant in poetry
my only musing art
as I am certain lechery
can rattle more than little springs
oh... and suitors bent on butchery
counting pool with finer things
a skill of dead, degenerated time
and angled, pointed dealings
and what indeed can rival rhyme
or image lain in lines that free
decieving ears while hours while and chime
what sinner knows better love than we
when it is ourself that sinner be
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