'Ner kun we strike friggled poets
with beams ahh pure moonleight
err write inspired verse without
feigning the joys ahh life. But
'er do I muse upon the Virgin's wombe
singing strippeths ta the glaeries thereof
because inspaired hearts
'er worth mure thun welle-roasted doves!
Yes! Whit happens under bed roome sheets
is more significunt than whit goes on in
katherdal halles where bishops with marbled lips
recite dogmas whuse meanings haf bun eclipsed.
Real consecration is reached by passionate lunatics
whuse need fer formulaic phrises ceases
when they chant music while a lissening ta angels
as wine flows from every kiss
& kommunion is achieved
in sacred moments when this . . .
becomes this . . . .