If all my life was perfect,
and all right with the world.
My pen would suffer from disuse.
My parchment not unfurled.
For what fool indeed
would waste his time
scribbling down lines
When Dame Love beckons to the feast
and all the world was mine.
No, irritation is my muse
and I her slaving churl
who palpitates a bit of grit
until it is
a
Pearl.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
If all my life was perfect,
and all right with the world.
My pen would suffer from disuse.
My parchment not unfurled.
For what fool indeed
would waste his time
scribbling down lines
When Dame Love beckons to the feast
and all the world was mine.
No, irritation is my muse
and I her slaving churl
who palpitates a bit of grit
until it is
a
Pearl.
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