Why for to labor in archaic art
And push with might that caber heavy pen
To skid in ink sweet musings of the heart
That they rage ever proud of words therein?
So, duty pressed to wax in flattery
Each premised worth upon which love is bound,
Yet waning quite in fool’s idolatry
At any thought that may love’s truth confound.
Still, what of love can ever said be true
Where painted countenance and lace do ply
Their tawdry time worn trade, gulled hearts to woo
That truth may soon upon the alter die?
This stylograph I wield at heavy cost,
Which, given grace, I should in candor toss.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.