My days on Tiber’s banks here chime
Not a wage to plead a dime
I needn’t praise my love for thyme,
Nor epiphany from losted time
But I rhyme!!
Argos gates do daily toll
Clanging bells ‘pon Fante knoll
What will I, what fate dole?
Yet to plead a saintly soul.
I shall write, that be right
Or my heart shall leave me sole
Dark of night, day or light
This be where I cease my flight
Where the haunting devil flees
I shall rest, my humbled pleas
There can no one take this place
Nor the devil nor his race
I shall write, in blood, in tears
Casted out, ye purged fears
Then a scribe I’ll e’er remain
‘Pon the death of all else stray.
It’s 2a.m on the 3rd day of May 2012 in the year of our Lord. This poem abegged of me be written, wouldn’t let me sleep. Yanked me off my bed, awrestling! Tossed me, turned me, threw the sheets off my hided face. Impossible my eyes if they to close. My mind keeps singing her dainty tunes and chimes I hear for her rugged tones. It eats me, yea drinks me! Plants me a silly knock if I should resist. And lo, here it be written.
Then, says I, let me review thee!! Then nay, it begs me sweetly lie. Poem, O poem, what wrong have I on thee bestowed? That thou shall cast thy troubles ‘pon me? I dare not try a way t’explain, lest sleep afix its eyes on me. What hated drowse thou churns on me, O poem!! That even in my half-asleep, thou wakest me and now in my half-awake, thou sleepest me?