You            Thieves,          My               Foes
Still            are                  thunder        play.
Flood[s]     cheat[ing]       not               fools.
Skies.          answer[s].      your[s].       beautiful[ly].

Oh, what crime? Twas this;
upon your loneliness you spake,
of how your heart needs gauze miss
and your soul calls like a chough’s quake.

No ample dispatch
has ever jolted you to the core.
Only the nitty-gritty mismatch
inside your first floor.