Lorelei

Ferie dearest, was it loe soothfast or a façade;

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 męlee;

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.