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The Willow Snip in the Mooneye“When the night begins,The Willow Snip in the Mooneye
And the Gods settle their stately monocles
Atop their snirling Cheekbone horizons, when a snuffbox of silt And sentiment has been whiffed, passed,
And the rook fiddles the first
Riddling chords of cadaverous caprice,
Will you lay the river in my lap and let her purr,
Purr at my touch? Will you listen For crashing cymbals of ripples swept away? Will the night not begin and riddle its chords to kill the days?”
“There is rancor, Sir, In the hearts of these rivers - Do you note her scaly bergs, her Snowblinks, he
by *NLY
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