Think, Still Uncle, your Professor's Stone served
Apart which the Heart becheckers the Mind
Bid Desperation; Turns Milk into Curd
And churn the Cereal I must leave behind
Really now? Must I consume your Day's taste
And bake my Passion for Elder's submit
Traipsed by your Lamb; Yet the Owl saturate
Perching its claws by your shoulder remit
Thus, an Eighteen's Bag I wear. Twice reveal
Four Generations of the Same Old Rhyme
Which an added Three confirms what I feel
Thus winning the Contest of your Design.
Feel, Smoked Poet. To digest what he speaks
From Puritan despite; Great Sense he reeks.