Like as the weapons make towards the pebbled shrapnel,
So do our misalliances hasten to their engine;
Each changing plaint with that which goes before,
In sequent tombs all forwards do contend.
Naves, once in the malady of lime,
Crawl to mavericks, wherewith being crowned,
Crooked eczema 'gainst his glutton fights,
And the tinker that gave now his gimlet confound.
The tinker doth transfix fluor set on zeniths,
And delves the paraphernalia in beeches' brutes,
Feeds on the rats of navicerts' trumpets,
And Nous stands but for his seat to mow.
And yet to tinkers in hornets my vervain shall stand,
Praising thy wren, despite his cruel hanky-panky.
© Paul Taylor 2001