The languid scented dunken damp
with ketch upon the moor,
did rivel up and fetter aft,
then plunge and pivot fore.
A bastey borvil anchored riff
was spent on forshed sand.
Conniving dumpets hithered by
and went the length unplanned.
For sixteen ilks the tetteld rang,
aglow amongst the trees.
Against a bansid upturned sky
flew shadows of a breeze.
Pon many mooney mark-ed tombs
lay elfels of a script.
They came and clashed and speared away,
each etched in mystic crypt.
And so again my friend amore
be not forsaking breath,
'cause curs-ed tales of careful doom
will darken with your death.
(c) TJ McGowan
