V
But by now, you know, or damn should, the old ropes
A member of the corvidae, strikes up an attitude
Which by some design lies across the wife and the husband
Feathers the nest, and death is nursed, like the open mouth
Til the season changes to the favoured, the richard the third
Weather, of discontent, laboured into four lines, then the cut
We must now plummet, a few vernes, in league with the tombs
The waters rush cold over the skeletons, you ask to much of me
Drunk like a college, sounds like madonna, and jacks the lad
A regular ragbag of verbatim thoughts, plundered by the butterfly
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