Oh, where is your inflammatory writ? Your text that would incite a light; 'be lit'
Our music deserving Devotion unswerving Cried; 'do I deserve her?' With unflagging fervor Well, no we do not, if we cannot get over it
But what's it mean when suddenly we're spent? - tell me true Ambition came and reared its head and went - far from you
Even mollusks have weddings Though solemn and leaden But you dirge for the dead And take no jam on your bread Just a supper of salt and a waltz through your empty bed
And all at once It came to me And I wrote in hunch 'til four-thirty But that vestal light It burns out with the night
In spite of all the time that we spend on it Om one bedraggled ghost of a sonnet While outside the wild boars root Without bending a bough underfoot Oh, it breaks my heart - I don't know how they do it
So don't ask me!
And as for my inflammatory writ? Well I wrote it and I was not inflamed one bit
Advice from the master Derailed that disaster Said; 'hand that pen over to me, poetaster!' While across the great plains Keening lovely & awful Ululate the last great american novels An unlawful lot left, to stutter and freeze floodlit But at least they didn't run, to their undying creditTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
