Matilda.
The light of my life.
The poem of my tongue.
The fire of my chest.
The wind of my *****.
The hate I loathe.
The beauty I view.
My lady.
My dream.
My hesitant rainbow.
My fearless tears.
My coverlet and starlet;
my blanket and dainty amulet.
My distant promise and cautiousness;
but in all my darling; looking ever so stately-
yet not like yon faraway, morning dew.

Matilda.
The hands I adore;
the fingers I want to kiss.
The solitude I live in;
the fate I was born in.
A pair of eyes ever to me too divine,
A charm that loyally strikes, and glows and shines.
A lock of hair that petulantly sways and sweats.
A midday tale of love; as how it is mine,
a beauty that this world ensures,
but cannot adore.

Matilda.
Even the brisk turquoise sea
is ever less glossy than thy eyes,
for their calmness is still less harmful,
unlike unbending, thus insolent tides, at noon.
Ah, Matilda, thou art yet too graceful,
but tricky and indolent, as the puzzling moon!
Thy purity is like unseen smoke,
tearing the skies' linings like a fast rocket,
making me ever thirsty, turning my heart wet,
but still this attentive heart thou canst not provoke;
thou art a region too far from mine;
but still luck is in heart whose fate's in thine.
And as thou singeth a tone I liketh to sing
I cannot help but more admiring thee;
And as thou singeth it genuinely more,
thou capture all my breath and give it all a thrill;
for I realise then, that thou canst be stiff, as sandless shores;
but thy beauty canst so finely startle,
and whose startledness
canst ****.

Matilda.
But deadness, and ever desolation
are vividly clamouring in thy eyes;
Thou art but distinct, distinct indeed-from serenity;
for thou warble thyself, but gladly-away, from thy sullen reality.
Ah, Matilda, how canst a soul so comely
be hateful to fame, and dishonest just from its frame?
Matilda, to those merciless hearts indeed thou beareth no name;
Thou art a shame to their pride, and a stain to their bitterly fevered, sanity.
Yet still, thou art to innocent to understand which,
and in love naively, as thou just art, now-
with that feeble shadow of a pampered young fellow,
Whose stories are also mine,
for his father's money is donned,
and coined every day-by my servant's frail hands;
The sweat of my palms obey me in doing so-
I am my master's son's poor sailor,
and he his sole heir-and soon is to inherit
an indecent boat; full of roaming paths, doors, and locks
And at nights, costly drapery and jewels shall be planted in their hair-
yes, those beastly riches' necks, and skin fair,
And thou be their eternal seamstress,
weaving all those bare threads with thy hands-
ah, thy robust ****** hands,
whilst thy heart so dutifully levitating
about his false painting, and bent even more heartily, onto him.
Ah, 'tis indeed unfair, unfair, unfair-and so unfair!
For such a liar he was, and still is-
Once he was betrothed to a bitter, and uncivil Magdalene;
Uncivil so is she, prattling and bickering and prattling and bickering-
To our low-creature ears, as she once remarked,
She who basked in her own vague hilarity, and sedate glory
And so went on harshly unmolested by her vanity, and fallibility;
But sadly indeed, occupied with a great-not intellect,
As not sensible a person as she was;
At least until the winds knocked her haughty voices out-
and so then hovering stormy gales beneath,
took her out and gaily flung her deep into the raging sea.

Still he wiggled not, and seems still-in a seance every night,
whenst he but cries childishly and calls out to her name in fright.
Her but all dead, dead name;
'Till his father tears him swiftly out of his solitude
And with altogether the same worried face
but drags his disconcerted son back into his flamboyant chamber.
Ah, and I caught thee again, Matilda,
Bowed over the picture of yon young sailor;
'Twixt those sweet-patterned handkerchiefs
On thy lil' wooden table, yesterday
And curved over yon picture, I was certain;
I caught some fatigued tears in thy eyes-
for from thy love thou wert desperate,
but still unsure even, of the frayed tyings of cruel fate.
Ah, Matilda, your hair is still as black as the night
The guilty night, though nothing it may knoweth, of thy love,
and perhaps just as unknowing it seemingly is;
as th' tangled moon, and its dubious arrows
of unseen lilies, above
Shall singeth in uncertainty; and cordless dignity
And which song shall forever be left unreasoned
Until the end of our days arrive, and bereft us all
of this charismatic world-and all its dearest surge of false,
and oftentimes unholy, fakeness.
Oh Matilda, but such truest clarity was in thy eyes,
And frightened was I-upon seeing t'is;
As though never shrouded in barren lies
Like a love that this heart defines;
but never clear, as never is to be gained.
Ah, Matilda, and such frank clarity dismays me;
It threatens and stiffens and chortles me,
for I am certain I shan't be with thee-
and shall ever be without thee,
for thou detest and loathe me,
and be of no willingness at all-
to befriend, to hold, or to hear-
much less reward me with thy love,
as how I shall reward thee with mine.

Matilda, this love is too strong-but so is, too poor
And neither is my heart plainly bruised;
For it is untouched still, but feeling like it has been flawed
Ah, why does this love have to be raw-and far indeed, too raw!
I, who is thy resilient friend, and fellow-sadly never am in thy flavour;
for in his soul only-thy love is rooted;
And this love is forever never winning-and it is sour,
Like a torn, mute flower; or like a better not, laughter.
And my heart is once more filled with dead leaves-
Ah, dead, dead leaves of undelight, and unjoy;
Whose cries kick and bend and strangle themselves-
all to no avail, and cause only all its devouring to fail,
For his doorless claws are to strong,
Stealing thy eyes from me for all day,
and duly all night long.
How discourteous! Virtual, but too far, still-
corrupting me; ah, unjust, unjust, and discourteous!
Tormentingly-ah, but tormentingly, torturously, insincere!
Ah, Matilda! But soon as thou prayeth,
every single grace and loveliness thou shall delicately saith;
Thy voice is as delightful as nailed, or perhaps, cunningly deluded vice-
Which I hath always feigned to be refuting tomorrow,
but is only to bring me cleverer and cleverer sorrow
'Till hath I no power to defy its testy soul,
that for no reason is too shiny and bold,
but so dull, and bland as a hard-hearted summer glacier,
and too unyielding as hurtful, talloned wines.
Oh, but no appetite I hath, for any war
against him-for he is fair, and I am not,
He is worthier of thee, than my every word;
He who to thee is like a graceful poem,
he who is the only one to smirk at
and hush away thy daylight doom.
Matilda! For evermore thy heart is mine;
and mine only-though I canst love thee
only secretly, and admire thee from afar,
Still cannot I stand bashful, and motionless-too far,
For I wish to hath been born, for thy every sake
Though it shall put my sinless tongue at stake
And even my love is even gentler then blue snowflakes;
and more cordial than yon rapturous green lake.
Ah! Look! Upon the moors the grass is swirling,
so please go back now; and be greedy in thy running.
Still when no music is playing,
all is but too painful for thee,
which I liketh to neither witness, nor see,
for upon thee the moon of love might not be singing,
as it is upon all others a song,
But somehow to nature it not be wrong,
for he cannot still be thy charm, nor darling.
O-but I hate thinking of which affectionately,
when thou crieth and which sight, to my heart, is paining.
Ah, Matilda! For even to God thy love is but too pure;
for it is faultless as morns, and poisonless-
like those ever unborn thorns;
Of yon belated autumn melody,
But is, somehow, fraught and dejected
With sorrow, for it is him, that yesterday and now
Thou loveth softly and securely,
Two hours later and perhaps, in every minute of tomorrow.

Matilda! But still tell me, how can thou securely love a danger?
For I am sure he is but a danger to thee, indeed;
Once I witnessed how his face
grotesquely thrusted into furtive anger
As he burst into a dearth of strong holds,
of his burning temper-under the blooming red birch tree;
And as every eye canst see,
He is only soft, and perhaps meek-as a butterfly,
Whenever the world he eats and sleeps and feeds on in-
Tellest him not the least bit of a lie;
Ah, Matilda, canst I imagine thee being his not,
ah, for I shall be drowned in deflating worry, indeed-I shall be, I shall be!
I dread saying t'is to thee-but he, the heir of a ruthless kingdom,
and kingdom of our God not-within their lands and reigns of scrutiny,
His words are but a tragedy, and a pain thou ought not to bear;
O, Matilda, thou art but too holy and far too fair!
Thy soul is, so that thou knoweth, my very own violin-
To which I am keenly addicted;
I am besotted with thy red cheeks-;
As whose tunes-my violin's, are thy notes
as haunting and sunnily beautiful,
And cloudless like thy naivety,
Which stuns my whole nature,
and even the one of our very own Lord Almighty.
Ah, Matilda, even the heavens might just turn out
far too menial for thee;
and their decorum and sweet tantrums idle and unworthy;
Thou art far, far above those ladies in dense gowns,
With such terseness they shall storm away and leave him down.
But why-why still, he refuses to look at thee!
Ah, unthinking and unfeeling,
foolish and coquettish,
unwitted and full of deceit-is himself,
for loving should I be-if thy smile were what I wished,
and thy blisses and kisses were what I dreamed;
I wouldst be but warmer than him,
I wouldst be but indeed so sweet,
I wouldst be loftier than he may seem;
and but madden thee every sole day, with my gracious-
though sometimes ferocious-ah, by thy love, ever tender wit.

I hath so long crept on a broken wing,
And thro' endless cells of madness, haunts, and fear,
Just like thou hath-and as relentlessly, and lyrically, as we both hath.
But not until the shining daffodils die, and the silvery
rivers turn into gold-shall I twist my love,
and mold it into roughness-
undying, but enslaved roughness;
that thou dread, and neither I adore;
For for thee I shall remain,
and again and again stay to find
what meaningful love is-
Whilst I fight against the tremor
and menace this living love canst bring about-
To threaten my mask, and crush my deep ardor.
Ah, my mask that hath loved thee too long,
With a love so weak but at times so strong;
and witnessed thee I hath, hurt and pained
and faded and thawed by his nobility
But one of worldliness; and not godliness
For heavens yonder shall be ours, and forever
Shall bestow us our triumphs, though only far-in the hereafter;
Still I honour thee, for holding on with sincerity-
and loyalty, to such contempt too strong
For thou art as starry as forgiveness itself,
and thus is far from yon contempt-and its overbearing soul;
And perhaps friendly, too unkind not-
like its trepid blare of constant rejection, and mockery
And as I do, shall I always want thee to be with me;
For thou art the mere residue, and cordial waning age of the life that I hath left;
For thou art the only light I hath, and the innate mercy I shall ever desire to seek;
and perhaps have sought shall, within the blessed soul of my 'ture wife.
Oh, Matilda, thou art the dream t'at I, still, ought not to dream,
thou art the sweetness I ought' only charm, and keep;
As thou art the song, that I may not be right'd to sing;
but the lullaby; which in whose absence, I canst shall never sleep.

Swirling morning mist, draws abstract patterns of love
moving sprightly,  between golden rays of sun,
prattling  breeze and other manifestations winter presents,
green grass on the meadow looks like a dew studded carpet
pussyfooting rabbits, lick dew drops in a hurry and run back
to the warmth of their burrows, to sleep for some more time.

Sun, the nourisher eternal of the world , don't hide anymore
come out, peep above the crowd of sleepy grey old clouds,
looking grumpy, ill mannered and winter arrogant to the core,
don't like their attitude a bit, come out blow your trumpet of warmth
make the drooping wet birds, dry, fly up to the sky with a happy cry
sing songs of joy, warm the hearts,drive the winter gloom out.

I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then
I try to think harder though, where have those memories been?
More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass
I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last.
Not in a sad time, not stuck in a place of hurt.
I just feel like I can't remember the good times to weigh the worth.
These new times, are something hollow, empty and void of feeling
No sleepless nights, but I find my self always staring towards the ceiling
So revealing, makes me notice my true emotions deep inside
Always telling jokes and laughing but right now we rewind.

I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then
I try to think harder though, where have those memories been?
More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass
I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last.
People say memories fade, others say memories last
I'd like to think that I could leave memories in the past
I don't want to cling to them like that's the only thing I have
But is it really bad? I guess you can say I'm home sick
Not missing my residence but missing where I've been
Reminiscing about the things that I have left on my journey
But they're not on their deathbeds, they're just on a gurney
Now do I save them, make sure that they are never forgotten?
If they start to fade for new memories should I stop them?
I feel like I need to answer quick, like I'm running out of time
I could keep stressing but right now, we rewind.


I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then
I try to think harder though, where have those memories been?
More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass
I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last.
I miss the days where I didn't have to miss my days
Where I could express myself in different ways
But this is today. Prattling words to my self
Not sharing my feelings, not sharing the wealth
I vent in stealth, not letting all the friends of me hear it
As if I'm ashamed, like I think my enemy is my spirit
You're hearing me in these lyrics, I'm embodied in the words you see
This is me in these lyrics, feelings and words, you see?
So if you're feeling my words, that means you're feeling me
So if you think that I'm a clown, this is the realest me
So this is real you see, no false words from the mind
I could keep on going but right now, we rewind.


I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then
I try to think harder though, where have those memories been?
More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass
I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last.
Where does the time go? I feel it slipping by me
I feel like my biggest problem now is I keep rewinding
So you may find me, reminiscing about the time before
Or catch me on a good day and I'll be rhyming more
Keeping myself in good spirits, while I find the path
Watching my life just add up, because well, life is math
Memories fade, because we subtract those things from the past
But it only happens to us, because we have something to add
So nothing is bad. Memory? I'll live all the good times with it in me
How much space do I have for the good times? Infinity.
No more time to rewind, I guess I have nothing left to say.
I guess the only thing left to do now is. Press Play.

This little rill, that from the springs
Of yonder grove its current brings,
Plays on the ***** a while, and then
Goes prattling into groves again,
Oft to its warbling waters drew
My little feet, when life was new,
When woods in early green were dressed,
And from the chambers of the west
The warmer breezes, travelling out,
Breathed the new scent of flowers about,
My truant steps from home would stray,
Upon its grassy side to play,
List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn,
And crop the violet on its brim,
With blooming cheek and open brow,
As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou.

  And when the days of boyhood came,
And I had grown in love with fame,
Duly I sought thy banks, and tried
My first rude numbers by thy side.
Words cannot tell how bright and gay
The scenes of life before me lay.
Then glorious hopes, that now to speak
Would bring the blood into my cheek,
Passed o'er me; and I wrote, on high,
A name I deemed should never die.

  Years change thee not. Upon yon hill
The tall old maples, verdant still,
Yet tell, in grandeur of decay,
How swift the years have passed away,
Since first, a child, and half afraid,
I wandered in the forest shade.
Thou ever joyous rivulet,
Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet;
And sporting with the sands that pave
The windings of thy silver wave,
And dancing to thy own wild chime,
Thou laughest at the lapse of time.
The same sweet sounds are in my ear
My early childhood loved to hear;
As pure thy limpid waters run,
As bright they sparkle to the sun;
As fresh and thick the bending ranks
Of herbs that line thy oozy banks;
The violet there, in soft May dew,
Comes up, as modest and as blue,
As green amid thy current's stress,
Floats the scarce-rooted watercress:
And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen,
Still chirps as merrily as then.

  Thou changest not--but I am changed,
Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged;
And the grave stranger, come to see
The play-place of his infancy,
Has scarce a single trace of him
Who sported once upon thy brim.
The visions of my youth are past--
Too bright, too beautiful to last.
I've tried the world--it wears no more
The colouring of romance it wore.
Yet well has Nature kept the truth
She promised to my earliest youth.
The radiant beauty shed abroad
On all the glorious works of God,
Shows freshly, to my sobered eye,
Each charm it wore in days gone by.

  A few brief years shall pass away,
And I, all trembling, weak, and gray,
Bowed to the earth, which waits to fold
My ashes in the embracing mould,
(If haply the dark will of fate
Indulge my life so long a date)
May come for the last time to look
Upon my childhood's favourite brook.
Then dimly on my eye shall gleam
The sparkle of thy dancing stream;
And faintly on my ear shall fall
Thy prattling current's merry call;
Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright
As when thou met'st my infant sight.

  And I shall sleep--and on thy side,
As ages after ages glide,
Children their early sports shall try,
And pass to hoary age and die.
But thou, unchanged from year to year,
Gayly shalt play and glitter here;
Amid young flowers and tender grass
Thy endless infancy shalt pass;
And, singing down thy narrow glen,
Shalt mock the fading race of men.

When, as the garish day is done,
Heaven burns with the descended sun,
  'Tis passing sweet to mark,
Amid that flush of crimson light,
The new moon's modest bow grow bright,
  As earth and sky grow dark.

Few are the hearts too cold to feel
A thrill of gladness o'er them steal,
  When first the wandering eye
Sees faintly, in the evening blaze,
That glimmering curve of tender rays
  Just planted in the sky.

The sight of that young crescent brings
Thoughts of all fair and youthful things
  The hopes of early years;
And childhood's purity and grace,
And joys that like a rainbow chase
  The passing shower of tears.

The captive yields him to the dream
Of freedom, when that ****** beam
  Comes out upon the air:
And painfully the sick man tries
To fix his dim and burning eyes
  On the soft promise there.

Most welcome to the lover's sight,
Glitters that pure, emerging light;
  For prattling poets say,
That sweetest is the lovers' walk,
And tenderest is their murmured talk,
  Beneath its gentle ray.

And there do graver men behold
A type of errors, loved of old,
  Forsaken and forgiven;
And thoughts and wishes not of earth,
Just opening in their early birth,
  Like that new light in heaven.

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.

        Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
        Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
        Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
        The short and simple annals of the poor.
                  (Gray, “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”)

  My lov’d, my honour’d, much respected friend!
      No mercenary bard his homage pays;
    With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end:
      My dearest meed a friend’s esteem and praise.
      To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
    The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene;
      The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
    What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!

  November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh,
      The short’ning winter day is near a close;
    The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh,
      The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose;
    The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,—
    This night his weekly moil is at an end,—
      Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes,
    Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

  At length his lonely cot appears in view,
      Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
    Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
      To meet their dad, wi’ flichterin noise an’ glee.
      His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
    His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile,
      The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
    Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
An’ makes him quite forget his labour an’ his toil.

  Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
      At service out, amang the farmers roun’;
    Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
      A cannie errand to a neibor toun:
      Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,
    In youthfu’ bloom, love sparkling in her e’e,
      Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown,
    Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

  With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet,
      An’ each for other’s weelfare kindly spiers:
    The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet;
      Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
      The parents partial eye their hopeful years;
    Anticipation forward points the view;
      The mother, wi’ her needle an’ her sheers,
    Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new;
The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.

  Their master’s an’ their mistress’s command
      The younkers a’ are warned to obey;
    An’ mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand,
      An’ ne’er tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play:
      “An’ O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
    An’ mind your duty, duly, morn an’ night!
      Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray,
    Implore his counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!”

  But hark! a rap comes gently to the door.
      Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same,
    Tells how a neebor lad cam o’er the moor,
      To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
      The wily mother sees the conscious flame
    Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek;
      Wi’ heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name,
      While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleas’d the mother hears, it’s nae wild, worthless rake.

  Wi’ kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben,
      A strappin youth; he takes the mother’s eye;
    Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill taen;
      The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
      The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy,
    But, blate and laithfu’, scarce can weel behave;
      The mother wi’ a woman’s wiles can spy
    What maks the youth sae bashfu’ an’ sae grave,
Weel pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave.

  O happy love! where love like this is found!
      O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
    I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round,
      And sage experience bids me this declare—
    “If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
      One cordial in this melancholy vale,
      ’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
    In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev’ning gale.”

  Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
      A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
    That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art
      Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth?
      Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling smooth!
    Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d?
      Is there no pity, no relenting truth,
    Points to the parents fondling o’er their child,
Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction wild?

  But now the supper crowns their simple board,
      The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s food;
    The soupe their only hawkie does afford,
      That yont the hallan snugly chows her cud.
      The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
    To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck fell,
      An’ aft he’s prest, an’ aft he ca’s it guid;
    The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How ’twas a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell.

  The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face,
      They round the ingle form a circle wide;
    The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace,
      The big ha’-Bible, ance his father’s pride;
      His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside,
    His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
      Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
    He wales a portion with judicious care;
And, “Let us worship God,” he says with solemn air.

  They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
      They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:
    Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise,
      Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name,
      Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame,
    The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays.
      Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame;
      The tickl’d ear no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they, with our Creator’s praise.

  The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
      How Abram was the friend of God on high;
    Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
      With Amalek’s ungracious progeny;
      Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
    Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire;
      Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
    Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

  Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
      How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
    How He, who bore in Heaven the second name
      Had not on earth whereon to lay His head:
      How His first followers and servants sped;
    The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
      How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
    Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command.

  Then kneeling down to Heaven’s Eternal King,
      The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
    Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,”
      That thus they all shall meet in future days:
      There ever bask in uncreated rays,
    No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
      Together hymning their Creator’s praise,
    In such society, yet still more dear,
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.

  Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride
      In all the pomp of method and of art,
    When men display to congregations wide
      Devotion’s ev’ry grace except the heart!
      The Pow’r, incens’d, the pageant will desert,
    The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
      But haply in some cottage far apart
    May hear, well pleas’d, the language of the soul,
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enrol.

  Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way;
      The youngling cottagers retire to rest;
    The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
      And proffer up to Heav’n the warm request,
      That He who stills the raven’s clam’rous nest,
    And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride,
      Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
    For them and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

  From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur springs,
      That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad:
    Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
      “An honest man’s the noblest work of God”:
      And certes, in fair Virtue’s heavenly road,
    The cottage leaves the palace far behind:
      What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous load,
    Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d!

  O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
      For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
    Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
      Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
      And, oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
    From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile!
      Then, howe’er crowns and coronets be rent,
    A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d isle.

  O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide
      That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart,
    Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
      Or nobly die, the second glorious part,—
      (The patriot’s God peculiarly thou art,
    His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
      O never, never Scotia’s realm desert,
    But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

my words are ungracious
and spill forth today
like mewling puke....

it astounds me....
that we celebrate
landing, badly i might add,
an overpriced
piece of mechano
on the backside of a space rock...

while.....
there are people
dying... right here....
on earth....from...ebola cancer....and other diseases

it astounds me....
that one person,
can get paid, 20 million $$$$
for acting in a ****** movie
while....others beg for change and sleep rough
under park benches....

it amazes me,
that  so many in the world
cannot read or write
and do not have,
basic and i mean basic
sanitary facilities....

it confounds me.....
that wars are fought
over race and religion....

it scares me...
that my son, will grow up
in a world where safety is
far less of a gaurantee...

it saddens me....
that i am as guilty
as the next person
of passing by
oe looking the other way
become too busy, too be
involved...in other peoples
pain...

my words,
ungracious
and hypocritical
are but the useless prattle
of a ranting raving imbicele
mere  spit upon the winds
of a word in turmoil....

but come on...
should we not try
to fix this world
before discovering others

They say a picture is worth a thousand words and I'm looking to make murals in your likeness
Something that would reflect how truly beautiful your soul is to me

Maybe a watercolour based painting or would pastel-coloured chalk do?

Should I focus on the brightest hues and play down darker tones?
                                                          ­           But your darker side is the part of you I love most.

Let's play with the lighting;
                                               shadows and rays make one more aware

I'd love to create a backdrop, possibly a place you feel most vulnerable and bared
                             The limitless possibilities, the mediums and the inspiration you bring me

Perhaps barring your soul is a tad too blasé?
               Let's dig deeper and find something more suitable for your mural

                                                          ­                                                                 ­        How about an impression?
                                                     ­                                                                 ­                     How I feel about you?

Oh my, that is personal...
                                                     ­   yet entirely too brilliant to ignore!

I could just go on and make a mural that much clearly expresses how I feel about you
The way you talk, the way you walk;

                                                          ­      That particular smile and glint in your eyes
                                                            ­              when something intrigues you
                                                             ­                 and you're up to no good.


Ah, the marvelous mystery I have yet to uncover that is you!
                                                            ­         But the fun is no doubt in trying to capture your essence

Ah, here I go prattling on and on about mysteries and emotions,
I'll get to work and I'll set up my drafts and display them to you...
                                                          ­                The Mural will be breathtaking.

but of course, not as fascinating as you.

Ask not the name of the man who speaks here.
He has traveled the long dusty way, and
Through pastures sought the better life and the
Way that is not broad, but narrow, unsought,
And travailing yes I say that I have
Come to this, now, that you may, unto me,
Ask the undying question that is of
The everyman and his suitors many.

For I say unto you, I have witnessed the breaches of man’s will,
And have bought talent with shrill motion.
I have sauntered upon the long dusty way, and I say to you
It is not what it figures, appears not
As it seems to me, yet I long the toes of my feet through its dust,
Admire the gentle gleams that aspire
To godhead like me, to Sunlight with crystal formations and dust,
And longing have I perspired here
Long hours in the midnight drone, and have bought with cheap glass the fire
That is promised only to the man who has nothing.

This I say to the longing, the begging, the thieves,
The stealing conniving and prattling on like
Bees in the springtime, honeybees so forgetful,
So lusting after the next flower, to make good
On the oaths of children and fathers, to find that
No oath could be so magnificent, no oath could
Make good what thing the sailing Odysseus sought,
Might have sought were he of godlier kind, might have
Heeded were he not of the atrocious living
You and me, but so we are and so we must contend,
Contend with the flesh and the life and the death, the
Longing, the dribbling, the hours ill spent, to find
Not to find, and to live not to live, best
It seems to you and me, prattling and squandering
Life for the grave, with little time left: Such are we made.

May just be prattling
But I’m still making a sound
Like the tree in the forest
That no one hears falling
I got the intensity
But you’re measuring pitch
These words speak volumes
Keep up with my speed
Embrace the melody
Of wounded lips
May just be a façade
Never wanted to be language
The talk of angels
Or something else heavenly
Could be Pentecost
Could be a tongue roaming free

With ease, with grace you slithered
into my air.
You breathed your chloroform,
noxious and stale
through the uneasy silence of this tiresome song.
The very word of your presence
chill and forgotten.
Quomodo Ego diligo vos.

The sheets are so cold,
I reach to feel you there.
Books and papers,
a cigarette case,
some silly stuffed **** thing,
left over one night.

Pulling pieces from a mason jar,
words and phrases.
The missive unclear.
Stashed away, here it can harm no one.
The letters familiar in hand.
Irgendwie Ich Liebe Sie , einmal nun jetzt

Oh that elegant flow.
The loops of a madman,
crazed and alone.
You taught him so many heartbeats.
Your long prattling song.

The painting rests by the end.
Short fevered work,
on one of the seldom afternoons alone.
I recall white walls,
toast with strawberry jam.
Loud, obnoxious music.
Brushes in water sticking out of an old can.

Who but I would remember?
Quomodo Ego diligo vos.
Now, perhaps more than ever.
Irgendwie Ich Liebe Sie , einmal nun jetzt


I feel you, wrapped in my skin.
A guest in my most earthly of homes.
Do you know how you intrude?
Even now, as the din has died down,
The curtains have closed.

A pen and the car keys,
insignificant things with no night table on which to rest.
Here, next to me have found a home.
Once there was you,
vile and lovely
warm on that side,
now abandoned.
Forgotten and cold.
Aborted as always.
Irgendwie Ich Liebe Sie , einmal nun jetzt

The evanescence of a light beam constructed inside Emilia's longing, desolate eyes as she searched her room for the pounding rhythm of a distance drum. The succinct stirring shot a severe ache into her eardrums, and she cradled her head inside her lanky forearms, comfortable in their cataclysm.

She had been stolen, and her arms were her only comfort. As she watched onward in the tiny, centipede-infested room she had been thrown into, the beating drums continued, and she could hear the unclear voices of large Ukrainian men prattling about "the beginning."

The beginning, she felt, had begun, whatever it was, and as she listened, the only thing she could think about was cutting those ropes loose and taking control again over these infuriating defectors as her birthright had dictated.

a soft is just as sharp as hard is tawny
fragile fingers o'er the premise
of the swelling maze of branches
up on the wind; o'er my sill
the delicious fresh breath
of the lamb of god
who put under the skirt of cobalt
(who now is wearing little
shafts of golden;
little grunts of oblong light
prattling through tufts of
whitish thoughts)
all the air in lungs
teetering past my lips
to feed the choir of blades
'gainst the mooning pallor

I. nope.



II.
long-windedness verbosity
diffuseness prolixity
wordiness rambli­ng
circuity discursiveness
redundancy tautology
tediousness verbi­age
verboseness length
longevity permanence
garrulity windiness
v­olubility circumlocution
expansiveness babbling
periphrasis gushi­ng
blathering protractedness
waffling lengthiness
iteration repet­ition
prating prattling
jabbering digressiveness
dreariness tediu­m
deadliness wandering
repetitiousness repetitiveness
pleonasm co­nvolution
logorrhoea boringness
maundering superfluity
duplicatio­n tiresomeness
monotony reiteration
gabbiness informality
mouthin­ess diffusion
logorrhea wordage
blah-blah dryness
dullness boredo­m
sameness loquaciousness
talkativeness loquacity
freeness orotun­dity
roundaboutness breadth
gobbledegook gassiness
wittering mult­iloquence
perissology big mouth
gift of the gab garrulousness
staleness tallness

Ash black night.
Whipping river rain.
The screams like hammers.
A home is dying.

The night is a physical thing.
Flooded with the rapid waters of change.
The boy inside his room is oblivious,
he can hardly hear the rain over the massacre

The crack of thunder
sickly syncopated
with the rending of a vow.
The window is his world.

Light is born, and dies all at once.
Searing the shelter he calls home.
He sits, tiny to the world.
Perfect picture of alone.

There’s a war in the sky
and another down the hall
Which will never be long enough
To drown out the ceaseless splitting.

It seems the rain will not be ignored
soon, its prattling is the only sound.
Somehow time skipped this place,
Stole away a childhood to the deepness of night.

Dawn is breaking
Illuminating what is broken
The boy that was, is among the pieces,
but wiser, older eyes cannot find him.

I am Bic Pentameter
Bic Pentameter is my name
Rhythm is my business
Time management is my game

Short, Long & Sons employ me
To tidy up their verse
The satirists are not too bad
But Catullus is a curse

I have danced with Sappho
Brought Shakespeare home for tea
Swapped pretty tales with Byron
Bounced da Padova on my knee

Marlowe picked a fight for nought
Auden spiked my drink
Wordsworth was insomnolent
He never slept a wink

Yeats, now there's an anecdote
Worthy of the press
The critic's choice by all accounts
The brightest and the best

But listen to me prattling on
To my work I must attend
Performance, prosody, poesy
The rules of scansion do not bend

For metre is all important
When reciting off by heart
The classic works of yesteryear
And I shall play my part

the car outside. you in your plain clothes;
I solemnize over this slow hill of flesh
when you lay down after the dredge.

it was your old automobile. somewhere in the
console, piping in the shell of night, your once
swift-footed self.

it was for Mico, you said.

this thing of time that was once early.
you in your white shirt with blotches of
yellow, like some aureole-bitten lip of bougainvillea.

some cold smitten flitter peering out
of the window of your gray head, your sage,
prattling about its conscious footing, this automobile.

are we but disputes and all that sense,
eluding us? somewhere in Malolos, the fatigued
machinery with its lilting rotor

modulates a once wild memory:
you, still in your white shirt. two bodies
drained of inertia – otherwise occupying song and silence,

our volition nothing but jarring (unmindful of its scathing dialect),
our terms to ourselves fabulated, the savannah drunk
in dappled light that evening – in front of the hospital,
mum as a nurse.

you pass on the keys to him,
learning new language. by the thousand strophes
of this lurching sea with its plodding delay,

your once bright bone, quickening in slow delight
now, as his face obscures yours with wonderment,
this evening – both of you in your denims,
   all three of us in a huddle stamped
  with heavy understanding.

I’ve got a song in my head
I don’t know what it’s called,
I don’t believe it has a name.
It’s catchy and I hate it.

It’s infectious, insidious,
It’s claws in deep, it’s wretched.
I’ll tap my foot while on the bus,
Slowly,
Amidst rows of other people,
Ticking their fingers,
Clicking their tongues,
To different beats of different songs,
Which they’ve all got stuck too.

I wonder if they’ve ever noticed
That some rattle out the same rhythm.

Every now and then
I’ll notice a face across the way,
Blinking,
To my toe taps.
Like this one girl,
There’s no way she could have heard me.
It was interesting.
Like a nervous tick she sat there,
Rapidly shutting the world out momentarily,
Desperately trying to forget the rhythm,
To think of another song,
Any other tune.
At least,
I imagine.

I saw another at the bar,
Prattling out the chorus with his knuckles
Against an empty glass,
Only briefly,
Before asking for another.

Every.
Day.
It’s the same ****** song.

One, two, six, eight, thirty seven, nine.
I’ve begun to make up words for it.
Eat, sleep, go to work, gotta be on time.
Seventeen, two, ten, fifty, thirty four.
See the screen, watch the ads,
Instill the fear of being poor.

Four hundred forty four trillion
Six hundred thirty six billion
Nine hundred eighty nine million
Forty six thousand and change.

I know I won’t ever be famous
I try but I’ll never be shameless
The direction I’m going is aimless
With all of my dreams out of range.

I see others, heads hung low,
Dragging a foot every other step,
Tapping their pockets in time.
It’s plain to see on some,
How long they’ve heard these sounds,
How many celebrations have been
Narrated by this drone...

Twenty two, thirty one,
Take forty five, sixty eight,
Two three four seventeen hundred wife?

I see some have given up,
Given in to resignation,
Heads bruised, walls dented,
Some mumbled sums falling through their yellowed teeth.

I see others that think it’s funny,
laughing at how it can be so bothersome.
I’ve seen them too, broken,
When a punchline didn’t come.

I saw something today though-
It frightened me.

Crossing the street,
Grinding out a slow bridge
Between my teeth,
A rock in someone’s tire tread
Providing a convenient click,
I saw a window open
And a man was there.
Or what used to be one.
As if he could hear my molars rolling
Heavily on one another,
He bobbed his head from left to right.

When he fell there was no moment of second thought in his actions.
He did not wait to be fully outside,
Presenting himself to the world
Before making a show of his decision.
It was as though,
Rather than crawling over the sill
He was crawling to the street below.
It looked so smooth,
So purposeful.
If it wasn’t for his calm demeanor
It might have looked as though he fell,
Having tripped over something in the room,
And was entirely accidental.

I think it would be more appropriate to say
He fell
A long time ago.

Possibly when he got home.
He fell in the doorway,
losing his boots by the door,
And into the kitchen.
Jacket catching itself,
Hanging neatly on a chair,
He fell towards the fridge,
where he accidentally knocked a fifth of *****
Into his mouth.
And he kept falling,
Towards his cat,
Spilling food into her bowl,
Then up the stairs he fell,
Plummeting down the hallway,
Knocking doors shut behind him as he went.
And in his room he fell so fast
His clothes flew off of him
And in the gust of wind he brought
Clean clothes were swept up
And he fell into those too,
Before,
Finally,
Gently falling out his window.

Maybe he fell before then,
When his job was automated.
Or before then,
When a judge ruled no custody.
Maybe he tripped over the body of a friend in highschool
And just never found his balance again.

I don’t know.

Paramedics were there quickly,
Vancouver’s best.
They must have been just down the street.

Still,
Before they got there
I got there.

His shoulder wasn’t where it was supposed to be,
And his elbow had popped across the sidewalk.

Still,
He was mumbling.

“Zero one double O ten zero zero,
O eleven hundred one zero zero,
Zero one one zero one one zero zero,
Zero triple one quadruple zero.
Double O one hundred thousand,
Zero one ten eleven zero one,
O eleven double O one zero one,
Zero zero one one triple one zero.”


I wish he fell farther.

When I was young, sometimes I’d forget
to be afraid of the Jabberwocky.
I’d skip along beside his emerald-wet
scales, on the sun-strewn sidewalk, me
prattling on about apple ciders
and Lucy Maud Montgomery,
half-humming boats and spiders
beneath a pale sky, dry and summery,
and he would lumber, unsteady, by my side,
trudging heavily through wild glens
till the dusk at long last turned to night
and I remembered his name once again.

Cooped within ancient bodies,
this inhabitant dwells amongst an elder net
of crabby, crotchety, curmudgeonly claque
of old folks, only a portion of population I met
which achey, flaky, kooky motley crue
disgruntlement fed as peevish pet
aye be earnest asper my assessment,
but some (quite frankly) getting ready and set
to lay down their limb mitt less lives,
even those who survived harrowing encounters as a vet.
-----------------------------------------------------------
­quotidian gossipers punctuate air waves while:
sitting, riding, quartering, puttering, operating, navigating,
motoring around on scooters (the sole means of locomotion

for many elderly residents),
whose sole occupation incorporates:
zapping, yelping, yakking, whining,
weeping, verbalizing, venting,
uttering, undulating, thundering,
squawking, squabbling, screeching,
rumbling, rattling, quibbling, quarreling,
prattling, pestering, okaying,
offending, needling, nagging, mumbling,
maligning, leering, lampooning,
kvetching, kibitzing, jesting, jabbering,
irritating, insinuating, heckling,
harping, glomming, gabbing, fulminating,
fretting, exclaiming, emoting,
denigrating, damning, carping, cackling,
bragging, begging, agitating, acting  
analogous to bad *** kids itching
for playground foo fight during recess,  

which comparison might be apropos
since majority of energy and time expended
complaining about nobody's business
concerning this, that, or another tenant...
thee management not exempt from
badmouth outbursts), where nondenominational
AARP qualified members congregate
within what constituted former auditorium
of repurposed elementary school,

hence quite some years ago (an honorable
NON GMO gluten free cheerful toast made,
instituting batter use then building standing vacant)
a bona fide unanimous dogmatic, heroic,
linguistic welcome sans titular viz zit head
where alumni of alluded alma mater, ivory fiery,
classy academic solvent atomic structure
became amalgamated, appropriated,
assigned a new life, whereat fob dost
electronically activate innermost recessed sliding doors,
principally, quintessentially, resoundingly availing maw
formerly entrancing students into
Schwenksville Elementary School,
though some years ago repurposed
with barely a trace constituting current subsidized
how zing facility re: Highland Manor,

the residence of thyself and missus
(approaching third month anniversary),
whereat I dune hot give a rats *** if aimless
airless baseless banter, ceaseless chatter,
dubious dabbling, et cetera if this solitary
ruminate thinker the subject de jure
of parlayed people portraying
penultimate purposelessness.

desolation paws
redhead crawls, maiden frowning
blushing, prattling

why do i spend so much time

angsting over (willthisrhyme?)

am i fat?
or are am i thin?
do i have the right
wherein....  
                     where·in (hwâr-n, wâr-)
                     adv.
                     In what way; how: Wherein have we sinned?
                     conj.
                     1. In which location; where: the country wherein those people live.
                     2. During which.
                     3. In what way; how:



all such empty
prattling
DIN!!!!!



lovers
friends
family
we all
end in
the re cycle
bin

Me, whom no Muse of heavenly birth inspires,
No judgment tempers when rash genius fires;
Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme,
Short gleams of sense, and satire out of time;
Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads,
By prattling streams, o’er flower-empurpled meads;
Who often, but without success, have pray’d
For apt Alliteration’s artful aid;
Who would, but cannot, with a master’s skill,
Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill:
Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit
For pacing poesy, and ambling wit,
Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place
Amongst the lowest of her favour’d race.

The relentless clock ticks
like a pseudo heartbeat,
prattling platitudes
of sententious pity.
Two decades summons pragmatism:
a mouth to kiss,
a place to eat, to ****
and shove like lambing ewe.
Set it in stone at twenty-five;
a diamond glares from Facebook,
a Gorgon eye, a quick click analgesic.
Marry overborne bricks
and surrender nature’s piquancy
to kitchens where flies ****
on all the dinners not savoured.
Probe for passion in drains,
Tupperware, between stale sheets.
Aridity resists fornication
in a ***** for absent frisson;
a stretch across oceans,
portenous as premature world-weary yawns,
Three syllables ought to roll easily
yet sear acidic, two tongues curtailed
and bourne back into silence.

Behold, the grueling chore or stripping down to your birthday suit
And listening to someone rattle off reasons why your appearance is sub-par  
Prattling about the depravity of the beautiful people
How they have to live in a world full of ugly, repugnant beings
"You seem to fit that description"
There's an elephant in the room and it's name is Irony
Depth is on the clock and shallowness is timeless

I deduce that you never got much attention as a child, and your parents put pressure on you with out considering that their callousness would rub off on you

Now you pelt those you see with insults and cruelty
When we met you came off as someone with unstable emotions
You told me that the root of all evil is the body and blood of Christ
And the expectations of your parents which they laid ahead of you we're unmet

I remember when you consummated your marriage to bitterness  
You did a banzai trip to the region of self-loathing for your honeymoon
I saw you off at the airport
You we're quasi-happy

You brought your acoustic guitar and scribbled words
Songs about undermining "The Man"
Dismantling the establishment
And grave robbing

You came back with bags under your eyes
A permanent frown
A cup that could never be filled
And a sense of superiority because you've suffered and no one could have survived what you'd been through

You told me the secret to your success was revulsion
And now you see me as scummy, worthless piece of nothing
When you yourself have become a ghost's shadow of the shell of your former self

******* my friend

And when the end of days arrives
And we are queued and cattling
Oh we can praise the Lord for death
For then ends all the prattling

The soreness stiffly settles in
So sit and stew and ponder thus
If there were anything to sin
Why would we wait here for this bus?

The scale is so at odds with us
Morphing, shrinking, chasm-crack,
The only way is on the bus
The driver, bless him, takes us back

My thesis is almost complete
I stayed up late to edit it
So would you read it in your seat?
It may be crap but could it fit?

Within the mediocrity
The realm in which we write
So early in the hour of tea
Or later in the nerves of night?

A.
Al-Muhaymin Supreme in the Preeminence of retchallop that frankquibbers revile spurned by spumid spurious ratchets of intorgurent wamzels cringing in the halldorn of rallendork simplicity girdled by all apanage of aphnology refracturism exalts. May the belletrist guarded by speos and indentured by vetudas of panopticon in the swoopstakes of jengadangle frapplanked by the frimple of the treecheese swarpollock of majestic retchanvil recumbent upon sockdolager stellified among the supernal supercherie of the superlative floundrewl bodged by facture and totemized by the prism of indemnity that harvests the narthex and with schoenabatic squirebells of ugmentum and the ilkengor of warbled wonderworks might we astound never by ashowel or blackguard by any gammon of aswallone that our trillom of retchination becomes nothing but ecbolic billingsgate contrary to agapism and contrarian because of placomaniacal camorras and the camisades of deturpation never succinct in tribulation in the heyday of interregnum always debunked by the frappern of commerstargal aleatory in the conation of expenditure but never indentilated by the kurgans profound in gravitas but never shallow in thanatousia. We all might gloam with the sondage of soothfast sopiter never crimson in the alluvion of detritus that the lour of lotophagous reskig becomes never a notoriety buoyant upon the navarchy of naturism defiled by sanguisugent tabanids flargent in tanquam tantony fraverscribbles of wrabble and wravvel might expound beyond the idioglossia of ideopraxist probabiliorism lackaday because the callithumpian lognon of pillory suborns the precarious twinge never the prolonged karezza of incumbent providence flictions can never dethrone and fangasts of fashimite grazzly timberlask opportune temerarious spado of the spancel of sphygmotic aspheterism can never aspire beyond motatory providence of blinkered brumbles subordinate to the regulus of reboant hatred.






B.
Glory be to Allah the most munificent bestower of the knells of foraminated carapace and the tachymetry of the cadence of isapostolic porlecked largition in the larithmic finesse never foutering in the aimless maidan maieutic velivolant lairwites of consternation scouring the ravenous matroclinic providence of maunders of dwale and dumose hedges of jengadangle frapplanks motivated by nummamorous flyndrigs always denigrated by the repose of the rapacious lechery of lentiginose bodewash. In the sempervirence of anacusia levied upon anemocracy leveraged upon the patavinity of synquest and rejoinder might the frantlings of the frottage of the depaysed ******* might incur the steepest precipice of penalty rather than the curmudgeons of normative defiliation spancules eradicate and spados despise in their humgruffin houghmagandies with their own parvanimity of prowling constative carnaptious lucriferous caverns beyond blettonism and bleating never with the peenge of tholes of thumomancy. The gricers of modernity in their terriginous turriform thanatousia might they disembark and cowl their gossamer cortinate flargent purpresture that the ashowels never flock with ennobled albatross in the egestuous penitence of too many a penitentiary of peccable stigmatophilia and the growls of tocophobia blinkered upon the deskandent nubigenous novantique of pregromanging deception among casuistry deranged by the chiminage of the antiscian antithalian foison of draconian blaring blarney excoriated only by thumomancy grandeval and sweedle too spartan with contraplex gerendum of tatamae belonging only to the swiven of starstruck imparlance impavid without defalcation and swank with littoral alluvion in the aigers of the holocryptic. Might we always marvel never with a blackguard schadenfreude for the enmity of fossarian shibboleth in the tribance of guarded trekleador and the premundane fascination of the hexaemeron of a truer theodicy rather than a prurient nihilism recursive in obganiation. We might scowl at the scamper of scobiform scabilonian sacrilege in the abeyance of heyday rather than simpered scorn scollardical because of costermonger quilombo we might never be shocked by mammothrept liaison or otherwise predatory mouchards of radicolous raffish rantipole disorder that is proleptical in its dippoldism and protensive in its timberlask kenodoxy of femicide fandangled by the artifacts of treachery rather than the drawflark of the gossamer simplification of ultroneous outrage terreplein upon the cavernous expanse of gloaming scribacious and bibulous parvanimity. May we always frown on the orthodromic ballast of tropoclastic warbles of tilted geotaxis reactionary only in the apagoge of licentious grambazzle because the frimple of dutiful subservience becomes the mainsail of lexers of laveer and never the fateful finifugal paravent of cordial rancor and eisegesis fraternizing with the flarmey of incarcerated denouement rather than treasuries of engouement amen.

C.
Al-Muhaymin guarantor of mercy gilder of preterplufect primogeniture and protector of the depaysed saxifragous emoluments that sashay against the enmity of travesty, may you endow the world beyond nostrification and above the nostrums of quacksalvers that no steep deed is forgotten by the shallow mettle of the emaciated emacity of a gravid tocophobia amasthenic never because of the ribald abderian swarpollock of the treony of trillom and the drawflark of regelation. May you always permit never the barnstorm of the wayspayed regius of the wartles of rindstretch radical in rhizogenic denialism rather than the normalism of sacerdotalism that scavenges the new florilegium for the promontory that beats the skelder of tracasserie riniguss in rintinole alone and apartheid bequeathed by the caesarapropism of all malingered scobiform secodont crambazzled senectitude grafted by the raffish hegira of foison and foudroyant umbrage always a cockshy detested never a perjury racemiferous with scollardical taunts of grating timberlask seminules of new world  denostram in the alloreck of penotherapeutic wamzels of the mangled corpses of pollarchy rescinded by the magnanimity of wragapole whartonized docility and demiurges of the sacrarium never of a pushful jocknee but always a grauncher and grapnel of the pogonips of flatulent deceit flargent only in the purpresture of the noetics of noospheres bowdlerized by an autotelic oligogenics of tramontane subterfuge. We always marvel about rangiferine randan in the superfetation of sublime deeds rather than carnal handfast debaucheries that we might never embody squandermania of coercive squalor fomented by diablerists never tempted by extramundane promise because of inveterate and inscrutable malloseismic thanatism that is only brokered by the ciconine Cinega rather than the promethean escapism and surrealism of a redacted scopolagnia and a rambunctious pallor of nebbich elitism scrambling with audacious temerity never tamed by the ferules of gnapped griffonage in the sempiternal gullarge of toonardical decree never evading its own bilkey of ebriection of periblebsis floundering on mendaciloquence and fropollowing the strollow against magnanimity rather than bequeathing the progeny of omphalism without hyperarchy and hypertrophy without hyperbole. Amen





D.
Al-Muhaymin deposes the glower of the griffonage of orthotropism in the squaloid declension of corruption in tabanid draksting and grambounced lethologica flouting every findrouement of rubricality that the calodemons never cauponate or capernoited by the artifice of bloodthirsty deceit might their foisons glorify upon the earth the cadasters of moral docimasy never fragmentary in decisive gestalt frapperns of sondage, sennet, regulus and the caesarapropism of cognoscenti grimoires of taghairm never embraced by the thumomancy of martexture and the marstions of nuncles of numquid  nubile ophelimity deprived by autocracy rather than reified by the parlance of succinct anonymity never curved by the hebephrenia of the warbled corrugation of sithcundman only wealthy by bolides of dramaturgy and only ennobled by the secodont scollardical flarmeys of debellated aceldama always reproved as a trinkochre  of flarium  never despised in its sondage of avizandum and never deprived of its cacoethes to gallantry never prattling about the nocicepty of tapotement. Might we all find never a vetust torpindage an exhortation to the vitriol of fractious fragmentary periblebsis that scaramouch ruffianism of ragabash and ragmatical histrinkage always docile to reconfiguration and always protean to the nomistic laws of magisterium that we might be redintegrated by gestalt authenticity rather than the forsifamiliation of the temenos guarding sanctanimity from billingsgate and the gate of the hypaethral chapel from the deposition of the delirifacient fracklings of perceived frottage rather than frigolabile naupegical themolysis of tredged trudgery in miscegenated disaster always goading and cadging the suborn of the slogmarch of voluntary eisegesis rather than the sincerity of exegesis that all refracturism in hypertrophy becomes a synclastic synoecy against the jocknee of a nyejay malaise of probabilism curved by the reginkeer of the identity diffusion and dissolution of the carnal temptation regaled only in roorbacks of the heyday of hearsay rather than excorified as a vestige of bronteums of  fulgurant prowess in the selective stirpiculture of a renewal of hymeneal vows of procacity rather than procellous illecebrous naivety that gudgeons of neovitalism revalorized into nihilism incumbent. Might we spawn the polyphiloprogenitive primogeniture never of the frivverscrabble of titanism blackguarded by blinkered gentincture in the frinteran flarmeys of despicable deposition despoiled by tachymetry rather than valor in the timocracy of virtuosity enabled by the enunciation of doctorate taciturn schoenabatic stenotopic virtualasis thriving in purified occamy rather than congealed in the bonnyclabber of false absolution and the dormitage of ventose verdure of clamorous abnegation empowered by egintoch wamzels rather than heroic apothecaries of sublime regard never a quacksalver can outmantle in their pothers of vesuviated outrage and donnybrooks of donnism in squalorformatic beliefs in the vitiation of phanerolagnist declension that they might flinch and shirk and shrive through  forswinked deskandent atrocity and because of frustraneous findrouement become redintegrated again by their balance of eumoireity and eudaemonism. We might not impress by our valetudinarian purpresture and our porlocking portreeve of aeronautical vendetta flippant upon flipsquires never revalorized or regelated by the refocillation of reflation that becomes boundless by tachydidaxy and never contentious by scampers of dacoitage that groundlings alienavesce from because of the graklongeur of the suffrage of the lorgnons and lambastes of the perceived pillor becoming a magnet for the mesmerism of tropoclastic tycolosis and may the typhlophiles renounce their dommerers and dompteuses of tregetour taghairm stellified only because of occult simplicity rather than ultramontane aggiornamento .Amen

E.
The gudgeons of gramercy rather than the efters of the eisoptromania of radical raltention never indentilated by the browbeat of glawson and the timberlask interregnum of grazzly qwestuns of rengall and nauclatic certitude might we all refrain from the profligacy of the renegades and charlatans who maraud mountainous rubricalities of mendaciloquence that fettlers and graunchers of pogonip pogonophiles might charade in their feckless faffle might we all astound with a torpillage of histrinkage rather than cowl with the capers of the camorra of vicissitude flargent in every centupled mendaciloquent halkend of the divestiture of elitism and the pregromanging pontiffs of popinjay and tinjesk ombrophilous fliction marauding in the maunder of the temptation of the wilder windlass wilderness of winterkill trudged by the bodge of the centripetal geotaxis of moral valor rather than deskandent tediums of raffish and ragabash notoriety exculpated only in the humble shrives of atonement for atomkent flombricks of desultory procellous portreeves of tracasserie unbounded by the suborned fatalism of malingering malaise that tregetours prepossess in their feigned and  faineant euhemerism flashy only with finifugal fizzgig of rannygazoo rather than rangiferine fury and feral longiniquity. Might we all shelve the aswallone of the frackling fatewrench of the frogmarch of the licentious lobbyists cavorting in lanais and machairs might their macadamization of radicolous Potemkin leverage become rescinded by the tralleyripped explosion of the abreaction never of mafficked magpiety never of the palisades of patavinity caroused by riniguss and ramparian swarpollock of craven timidity escorted by the penotherapeutic deception of cyprian lackadays never befitting the heyday of the carnage of miscegenated modernity and the prance of terpsichorean promontories of paranoid ausehetoria that might never vanish in the effluvium of ragabash worthless taradiddles of crapulence in the naivety of the bickering vicegods among gauleiters that pretend a conation of celibacy in their oligomaniacal chantage of vangermyte outrage because of hikkling hinkergs in the bray of the jackals of aceldama always requited by the connoiseurs of generative prowess and seminal wizened reflection nostalgic only for junctition and wangermist never the pallor of the bluepomp of draconian hyperarchy. We navigate with arctician oecodomic plashy placets of fouterers in their aimless grumbling that their groaks of crose and their tholes of lackaday lacertilian schadenfreude recursive upon them in accursed malism that they might leverage their hindsight and lollop their foresight without a hint of regret but always pregnant with the remorse of rectiserial limits of troponder shattering every glass ceiling that bluestockings themselves in their harridan humors of sapiosexual pollarchy that they might never feign their diestrus of duty might they never become the fallow novantique of dastardly cadges of imperative but faked drawflarks of trillom in the treecheese of litigable estoppage. Might we all remark with certitudes of cadaster rather than sempervirent fictions of a radical docimasy ruinous with genesiology but always rectiserial in meritocracy. Amen!