The Globe Tis Choked

Rid me of this damn corn, the progeny of past laquered loves, its to, its fro, they lap like cats at milk, destroying all Returning then to orange groves and furnace fire/sing to me the song of could have been, sweet orchard’s milk and valleys The wiry sheen below the capstan’s turn, to anchor goes the choking deep; all’s not well, fifty fathoms down Now granted pure by nature’s leap, the sequinned, peppered snow, from mountain’s irridesent yawning glow, descends to us in a throw, of sower’s hand! Lilliput and Gulliver, side by side, lead the band, and bring the sheaf to altar bare: but quick! Before the earth be dead, and all its winsome jewels to share