Look you, I mean, Miss Perkins,
All truth is hated madness in this state;
Examine this and that curl
While I regret a tongue to you, much less berated flick.
Madam, what you do not understand
Is the assembled stride of things;
I see, you think that you're chic in your knit,
But it is all an aged arrangement,
Ailing eighth notes of a bar,
Concocted and consumed by a crusty saint.
Do you dare to believe through necessity
That he thinks of you?
You're late and he's meditating another rounded fate.
Look at your paint, my quaint thing,
With genes of farce complete
They venerate a predestined thought
Cancerous with be-er, societal toaster and lip twister.
My dear, have you gone blind and deaf?
This state bespeaketh a mimic
Of the older temporal mime;
In it all of you and minus me are standing in line!
Now my sweet, don't irate become,
For 'tis of things in general I pontificate;
If you believe for an instant
That my care is of late
Your frown is failed in another space.
Place your dainty London heels out there in star-treds;
Observe the laughter in the light;
From insular breeds
I will one day all this redress,
And all of your adieu
Replace with Night this globe's corrupted sadness
And survival born damnation of the person's coin.
Why, where are you going, dear?
Oh yes, Doctor, here you are,
Doctor Silume, yes, things are, of course, set right.
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