She is a daughter of mild madness,
Visiting the humble who’re vulnerable,
To grip of kleptomania and depressive manic,
Like Shakespeare and Fyodor in the lands yonder,
But often once in a while of the blue lunar,
Not caring the social class or material status,
She boldly loves those wallowing in the pauper’s mire,
For they have nothing but time to court her to bed,
Bed her down with patience and request for a turn,
In lovely contrast to the bed room dilemma,
She mocks the rich for boredom in the huge tummy,
They stuff her up with un-called for luxuries,
And they deny her love in freedom to behave poorly,
Her deep-hearted secret, bed-fellowing the poorly,
For the sweet gift is in the time they give to her,
Like a decade of Odysseus turmoil with calypso,
And Pope’s time with art in his torture by wants,
To sing the short knowledge is dangerous,
On a shallow sip of the pyrene spring,
In the classical charm in the  essay of man,
A strain that only visit the neurotics,