The Philosopher-Dad told me once more
To prose Un-Condition with that of Fame
Or marry the Stars; Whose Lights seeped at Core
Bring those Cycles bound to Verses remain
It was, I admit, since a Decade been
For a ***** whose Hours prove your Good Truth
That despite those Slates - as Smooth should have been
Were our Terms writ; Be it Carnal or Couth
Sad. If such your Judgment our Virtues based
Though try as we must to Scribble the Heart
Which by Human consign our Charms defaced
And offer the Harlot to puncture your Part.
If we mean well, then by Lighthouse Respect
Take our Signals be; Without pre-aspect.