Poetic Feed.
Why did I sing my song
to ply her pulse and stir a look,
Knowing not the uncertain harangue,
and all a commanding book.
Where, when and how
the songs turned into an arrow,
my Cupid could have no guess ,
how the love was brought into my barrow.
Her flight in the blue-deep was never narrow,
the lea, mountain and the sea were with her,
though far to reach, I had a romantic jar.
Why did I sing my song,
and committed an undue wrong,
In her liberated isle with my missile,
Till beeps in my reeds.
I confess, I had no poetic feed.
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