Ad Pulcherissimam Fireassam Mariannam
These humid days
Tend to craze
More than desert sun.
But if her heat
Will join this heat
Then come come Delirium!
The Beautiful Bain of My Existence (Jonesin’)
We’re all struck soon or late, you know
By taxes death and Carey
At least that’s what I tell my self
To console me for my broken health
And this new vice of poetry.
When at night we forage for beer, for bagels
And such leavings as may be
I catch her dark and piercing eyes
And I smile, I smile without disguise
But she plays dead to me.