Prat thee wary hintermane
For the bolus is slow in going;
What’s worth in urns as contestation
But the flurry of Icarus’ bee-stuck blades
High above the purpling-atmos-typeries,
Your aire’s refracting minions.
Prat thee wary hintermane
For the bolus is low and flowing;
When’s sum is such proud and stolid stone
The prohairesis of every avid atom known
And then some, for the force decides its name,
And how distant, any galaxy, a rumored Polygnotus.
Prat thee wary hintermane
For the bolus is fondly glowing;
Weird vessels perform the day
Then give way, their walls of vessels
Made unto any legal word among a court
Of dust, the highest music sang, Prameya.
Prat thee wary hintermane
For the bolus is grossly rolling;
Space is fat and heavily bulged, and
Leather girds all conflation’s lantern.
Wildly thrashing, the engendered then hang,
Sails slumped to eloquent wrinkles.
