Give me treats of Keats and bowls of Shelley
And Milton’s honey may my palate praise,
May bits of Byron fill my empty belly—
My quill pen true—it’s Worth in Words to phrase;
When feasted well on Poe drown thirst with Blake,
Mead drink to Shake with ice, or stir with Speare
Of mint, and quaffing so my soul to slake,
While musing yet on melodies of Moore.
May such a feast be blessed by wondrous Pope,
May Marlowe yet so toast this grand tableau
And somber Hardy lead us not to tope
That from gold tongues might tender verse yet flow.
There on sweet lyrics let me gorge my brain
And so surfeited there rhymed zeal sustain.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.