Another alienation averts avenged arrows
Bending better batteries bridging broken barrows
Callously carrying cleverly covered crowns
Draining dark drones death’s destination drowns
Easily eradicated empty errors educated
Fitting fake factions feeling fascinated
Grim guns grapple grabbing generous gems
Helplessly hopeless honing happy hems
I instantly investigate icy ideas
Justifying jokes jumping jester’s jeers
Killing kings kindly knights kick karmas
Lessons learned lately lament lit llamas
She’s got 60 odd doodads for hanging up things
But the things that need hanging all lost their hang-rings
And the hundred spare whatsits and thingumajigs
Are all missing whiffles and sproggles and spigs.
The heehaws and dingles are all the wrong shade
But she reckons that one day she might dye them jade.
And the moth-eaten frumpus and scrubby old zran
Are sacred because they were knitted by Nan.
The quillies and shoobies took up too much space
So she bought a new wongle to give them a place;
The wongle got riddled with spotty-tailed loots.
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;