a twinkle in my mezzo
is a wrinkle in this forte
where flatulent is an eggplant
but virulent is my phone

that screamed from my soul

as she'd walk in a box of rings
that made me sing her too
With sheet of tears did blanket
Around her bed of posies alas

if heart truss sung to their content  
tonight the hour grew dark in Jodrell Bank
as this virtue of love did radio a Lovell
and sealed my fate in spite of her again