Mélomanie

On a crude parapet

I questioned Bell's Theorum and had this passing thought

Ore how many leagues could I unmake this knot

The light low shine

But only in a pour

I read the passage from old Manley's hand

For who is this new invention planned?

Standing shoulder to head

A hands breadth

A medicine for a new line of ailment

But over heaping hummock hold my mission

Say to make the merry make my weighed decision

Profoundly hypochondriac

The environment disgusts me all the time, sometimes

But on that crude parapet

Garum of geese all around

I looked ahead and could not see its

Stoney conclusion

But knowing

It was there

I turned upwards

And the embankment

Suddenly broke