O, what shall drown thee, o knight of arms
That stretch beneath my savage cloth,
And glee a feather eagle from harm
With hands that greet ye of soft.
But do not drown, my knight of arms
Of struggle snuff that begs thee
To quarrel from thy seasonal charm
To starve thyself of imagery.
I see a thorn in thy iris eye
That serves soil to her precious land
With shades of gray that try
To outlast thy unfurnished hand.
I sought to fail thy desire of need
Minded greed to a merry drink
A thirst to drown from drowsy deed
And coldness lips of pink.
I kiss thee with lips of cursed shrill
That touch to shiver my spirit thus
Of service to thy soul with eyes that thrill
My flu that quivers thy moon to rust.
I mate with thee with flowers and girth
And paint thy soul to my nourished eyes,
Look, but not with eyes that deserve
A pale glance for beauty’s heavenly birth.