With milk glass fixed upon the skies

Our sister shifts through endless gloom

And leaving lowlands where the lie, she leaps!

From reeds

to flames

to die in cinders,

burnt upon the moon.



Monday's child on swift approach, a monster on the mount,

Sees Sunday's child turned lachrymose, a maudlin song abounds

Then ram

Then crow

Then cat did spy, and in a flash did flee

While bairn – now yoked with mother's tail – escaped into the sea.


I heard your song by the black Acheron

All salt-soaked and tugging on strings that at once

let rip heavy bellows and wimbering shrieks

Sure tore up them bellies of wander-lost freaks,

But I who cuts noses, clips ties and old cosys

Fared dance, drink and drown in that murkdrab of poseys.