This has the air of the fair,
Smacks of it in fact,
No trace of the hairy mare,
Wheeling her desolate tract.
Come, wait a while, cracking smile,
Come, sit still a bit,
Tethered her with our guiles, our wiles,
There’s the mare champing at it.
Down the lane past lowly spinster,
Akimbo-rent the priory doors,
Would you pass the sinister minister,
You’d better go on all fours.
‘Tis dog house for you, as he extracts his toll,
Ye sick, raving, howling monstrosity,
Or clapped in irons as your mortal soul,
Goes sauntering off down the jetty.
And it pops in the great lake gleaming,
While mortal body flops and issues,
Torrents, nay, rivulets of tears streaming,
Nay, rouse ye weakling, ’tis all beyond your seeming.
These bare threads pulled to your unseaming,
Threaten to bring on that dark, desperate night,
Why, maybe I shall put a clear sky there,
And under my aegis rid the blight,
An aid perchance to stir your care,
For it is in domain of my sight,
I am the whip driving the mare.
The Emergent Sea 