A lambent fancy of mannered madness that
Every lasting fable and improving tale advises abandoning
And yet here I am, without my thatch
Stranded on some lamplit landing, rambling on
Sketching the lady, that sun I will handle hot.
Wasting good Bics on sticky, must-nix fantasies.
She discourses, of course, in perfect four course iambic
She forces with her eyebrow’s Glamdring
The furtive to gamble in panic.
Alchemisland 
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