A tidy avick in picturesque canvas is upon we:
The red-ruby skies are abuseful and force the moon to go a-bed;
The ethereal twilight can’t abide the heat and rays
And tries to put them down with doted drääts;
Time goes abroad as the footy colors have ached
As with stars last glitter they fresh the skies.
Foreigners frit on the amakin light,
Boss the barca and chant a frore ballet…
Leastwhile that is how the casted chat whispers.
Anigh the waygoers have been at the vady quill,
While, unbeknownst to one and all, one’s self pents the alehouse
Picksome for a huff-cap, hot-pot and tramp.
The nymphs are welly twited and spilt
In unforbiden shackles of words until the token tores them up…
Mosey chaos mun awake in the mizmaze,
Mending aghast souls from night’s mawkin.
I bliv the blazed comets shall rise and nurt
In a wondrus burlesque on blining mortacious thoughts…
The grotesque sunrise is anewst!