Fćrie dearest, was it loe soothfast or a façade;
a serenade siren'd to lure - zounds! not to court me?
a mćnad, yet the sweetest colleen -
certes didst thou me unveil meekly life pristine.
Lorelei,
a poet of tragedies, scribe i lauds to death,
yet who the hell was i to dare?
lorelei,
canst thou not see thou to me needful art?
canst thou not see the loss of loe painful is?
Dćdally didst thou perform the tragic pasquinade,
for all years a damndest and driegh'd accolade -
caus'd for all eyes mazéd to behold a męlée;
in the midst did i swainly cast thee my bouquet:
the one and sole faggot that feedeth the fire,
bellow´d bidingly by my heart's quailing quire.
Lorelei,
a poet of tragedies, scribe i lauds to death,
yet who the hell was i to dare?
lorelei,
canst thou not see thou to me needful art?
canst thou not see the loss of loe painful is?
Perchance author i thee this ikon'd apologue for aught,
doth the wecht burthen thee?, then bethink thine afterthought:
'tween ćther and 'nether art thou the peerless phœnix -
prithee, darlingmost! - court me rather than the peevish prolix.