To min precious cup I wet min lips.
And gorge ‘pon the keeper in min midst
And woe betide man that befallen to thee,
Should come astride wisdom as well as gliw.
And in the musings of time all shall come to pass
As plainly a suitor to a lass
The bitten, blind pilgrim prays fervently
Oh I wish a black swan should herald one day.
For the smell of the grass, and the turquoise sky,
And the birds singing sweetly and the chorkling by
Doth ever min wound feedeth high and dry
to such lofty repose, repose, ne’er me by.