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.