Fin

They've allotted me three kings... All with equal amounts of endearment Offered to me on a baited line With trembling sticky fingers. It is all but impossible for me to write of The fortitude's of each of them. Or of how they slithered about Simultaneously through the whetted night Committing treachery against my mother, Every one of them, obliviously. Of how they stretched and skewed The sentiments of my chambers, My bellows. Beseeching me, Come swallow... Drink in the nectars, The sans pareil of sweet. Come thrush... With quick and jaunty flight. Beating in the night with hots Of red and white. Come quick albatross... Fast to my body With your obliterating bite. Waning away, Your five fingered blight.