Truth being Beauty's so utterly disgusting & much dafter Sister, that, pace Ruth, we all used to think
The cunt had to pay tramps just to fist her e'en after treating them to too much drink.
Grown old, I'm less bold to hold to what is merely Witty, has Utility, or, too severely, is True
Now, Identity, e'er so drearly, is Love's own Pity & clearly, a but fleeting point of view.
Envoi-
Peace hath a Prince! Pontius, to Thy Soter, to be lenient, 'tis the Season to prevaricate
Love is a Christ so convenient, or, to Leibniz, Reason so Sufficient- only Hell escapes Hate.
No comments:
Post a Comment