Sordid stepping from the left arise
For to the right she’d seldom think to see
Lashes just like spider webs o’er eyes
Which sweep the mist and catch me as I sleep.
The new Sprit with the eyes in wich he’d trapped
The strings of many precedented fates
Grazes on the threshold of the lapse
Of recognition; there the left berates.
The Sprit of spirits potent in her kind
Her all-assuming manifested craze
Ejecting me from woeful holds I find
Rejectamenta clothed in urbane gaze.
The Sprit of desperate threaded fingers jousts
The Sprit of spirits: sovereign of doubt.