Strength in this green abyss my poet give me,
Endurin' stale air mashed with ticks of time
Who still tombed beneath my mind with plea,
Beg, release, carry thee through field's sublime.
As if floatin' high on a cloud cushion'd white
Starrin' with hoverin' gulls cupp'd on gentle breeze hands,
Spreadin' views of meadows lush over a dreaméd sight,
To see this myself to vision myself over glorious lands.
The work of the poet not unlike scolded skin to turn red,
Touch softly the area around ruby's tender heat'd glow,
Takes my tedium with magic guile from out my head,
Soothes the burn with lotion, easin' my throbbing sorrow.
I throw, with all lovin' intent a polite gesture to thee,
For this my poet and for this throw one back to me.