, ,

[someone made me do this – they know who they are. A challenge to use 10
particular obsolete words in a poem – needs polish I know.]

In the sun’s soft rays do I apricate;
Was yestreen, my love, that I stayed up late.
‘Twill be overmorrow before I rise
When I’ll miss the gaze of your almond eyes.
Your anagapesis for me I know,
And that loss of love, it has brought me low.
Would you, from your hair, cut a golden lock,
As a memory. (for your ex-bawcock)
But I fear I sound like a blatteroon;
Like an aeolist who bays at the moon.
As a madman strolls in the midnight dew,
And with walking stick does the toads spanghew,
Now potvaliant, in the grip of drink,
Satisdiction done – into sleep I sink.