“the night is young,” chirped the gale
“& i am tenderized by lovely thoughts.”
i recall some silent squall, long forgot,
which renders my palate quite pale.
who amongst us dares to dally
those who rise to the occasion,
who live to love, lack hesitation,
in the well-sunned verdant valley?
not I, said the dog, whose conscience cried,
in his paw one emperor’s stiff white thorn
a close shave exposed a ewe to be shorn
a panserbjorne fit to spit on his rag-doll Bride:
“if you don’t ask me to eat, I forget my dinner
make haste, love, before I waste away thinner-“