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Not him who wears my face
Woman! darkly gleam is your work I esteem…love it!
From mountainous mountain top to valley‘s belly
I hear you pluck…on eagle‘s wings…onward pluck
How nice, your device visits and forces in their smelly
Glamorous cells, a glad evening‘s grief to run amok.
Then ever, of flowing emotions savour. Oh their deeds befit!
Skip a stride, hop a stride, and gleefully grin upon
Their seeds too – in their please full bliss and homely homes.
But a seed… …he who wears my face and is adorn
With a talking tongue like that of his majesty Jerome‘s;
When you, him happen upon, spare an empty glance. Clickaty-clacks too,
Mine ears must hear not near. And my nose, free must it be of your flu!
On scribbled accounts, oh read, ever shall you in your shrine;
And content shall I be having inked my fourteenth line.
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