Met a cute girl today at the South Bank poetry library. She let me buy her a drink but when I said 'age is just a number' she replied 'unless, as in your case, it is an inaccessible cardinal'. I said 'Sorry Luv. I have to wait 8 more years before I can do 69'. Then I woke up. Sad.
Poetry, if quantitative, metrical, becomes but its own qualitative immeritus
Its vaunted virility, the thrashing about of a, but, ferret trousered to us.
Save in that an Oneiric order can be so self-injectively ordinal
None's twat can set its cap on its own crapulous Cardinal.
Envoi-
Prince! if too shallow for Vishaad's Yoga of Vyasa's conceptive lake
Haunt the Viyogini's Naishadya, hidden for perspective's sake.
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