When for the Muse shall I wrangle those Songs
And carry them Gently to your Heart's place
First my Errors make Pure; Then Right my Wrongs
To listen, dear Talent of Promising Grace
If such my Words be too Quipped for your Pick
Since I, abandoned the Once-Supporting Friend
Shall I bite Sincere; Then hear your Voice unique
By Faith my Cloudy Attitude amend
Then crank this Ampled Recorder to Like
Which by Prayers fast weave a Chuffled Tune
To capture those Drums; From Snails such Elves devise
And summon the Crowd to revere you soon.
That is my Wish; Though Hoodwinked I become
Blow Notes for your Pen; Such Pen your Gift's Sum.