I feel an aubade coming on. Sestinas resist me
like the plague. I don’t know what it is.
Even the limit lines of the limerick escape me.
But to that I say this,
meet me in the pumphouse, Molly.
a lyric there takes wing, a bawdy and crude verse,
no worse than the first; and in the morning,
all throats will concur round the note:
Molly’s gone for a sailor, and the world is off cant,
our initials scarred into its floor.
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