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!
