Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote,
The drochte of March hath perced to the roote,
I’m gonna grab her pussy
Cos she’s a piece of ass.
We see, we see as he hails a strange bird
In joyful abandon, we hear every word
From broad, distant sphere she falls ever nearer
And into the soul of this brave poet seer
We hear his heart pound as she falls to the ground
And swims in the fountain of kisses and sound
Caught in this moment of bliss and beyond
We hear his sweet Skylark, we hear her sweet song.
Summer straddles years
Old Winter dies inside
Spring brings in the carolers
Fall’s leaves drop and rise.
Words war on the plains above
Mute as dots on snow
Translated not for earthly love
But strange and distant show.
Perched on tiptoes, filled to the brim,
Then, just in time, the drawing in
Of milky heat and daylight din,
The birches, like old urns, displayed
The awful truth, cracked and crazed,
Of beauty to poem to memory made.