Thus I repeat from that my gaol’s shame,
As I’d recite a nonsense verse to Cyril.
Not sweaty Bacchus on your crumple sheets,
Nether a fool clenching your warmth, who needs
It like a poodle the stick. Not that one, silly!
I’m Mab the Queen’s descendant. So, obey!
And every elf nigh is my grateful slave,
And you – you are a slave ungrateful, rotten…
Not essence of my soul. Мy nevermore.
Not flesh from fruit, like water melt in snow,
A bleak herb foreshadowing the autumn.
What did bond us – a flash, that won’t survive,
Yours – outfighting one, and mine –a helpless cry,
A word that came in play, and wound up so futile?
For me that bond became a boa. For you
A yawn in daily sorrow at half past two,
As you woke up indulging precious beauty.
But how could you, how could you, how could?
For I am England! English speech and God.
A lively tongue with pimples, slimy, noisy.
And you are just a stain on it, a smut,
Though itching one. That is why I am mute.
Am I a genius? I am your foot-clothe, Bosie.