Ferie dearest, was it loe soothfast or a faзade; A serenade siren`d to lure - Zounds! not to court me? A menad, yet the sweetest colleen - Certes didst thou me unveil meekly life pristine.
Lorelei, A poet of tragedies, scribe I lauds to Death, Yet who the hell was I to dare? Lorelei, Canst thou not see thou to me needful art? Canst thou not see the loss of loe painful is?
Dedally didst thou perform the tragic pasquinade, For all years a damndest and driegh`d accolade - Caus`d for all eyes mazed to behold a mкlee; In the midst did I swainly cast thee my bouquet: The one and sole faggot that feedeth the fire, Bellow`d bidingly by my heart`s quailing quire.
Lorelei, A poet of tragedies, scribe I lauds to Death, Yet who the hell was I to dare? Lorelei, Canst thou not see thou to me needful art? Canst thou not see the loss of loe painful is?
Perchance author I thee this ikon`d apologue for aught, Doth the wecht burthen thee?, then bethink thine afterthought: `Tween Aether and `Nether art thou the peerless phoenix - Prithee, darlingmost! - court me rather than the peevish prolix.
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