Five

The light of my life is the tide of the tight Which half of witchcraft is blight to unbright? Paper of papal intent in the tent Fare of the fate to the wittingly went Knives are nice, but butter is better A flick of the wrist and a twist of the fetter Burn through the binder and break down the bricks The deluge of delusion that stickles and sticks Ruptured erruptions of singing to sin Enraptured in rapture by fiddling the fin Won't will your wont until the wight's won Sorrowful song of the son of the sun Lice come less when Winter won't wrest Sum of the Summer rests in the West Oughn't the Autumn to singe from the binge Swing with the Spring of the tingling tinge Donning the dawn of the bleeding night's blight Moon dies at noon at the frightening fight Dust of the dusk falls to slickening breath Bright light of deep night dreams quickening death.