To bed, to bed, but quietly said,
with a quaint taste of ardour
and a slight touch here and there.
To wed, to wed, a bug to brush
away this so called love
of the troubadour,
whose quick amour
one does not miss
nor that tremendous bliss
of crushed roses steeped
in the gooey remains
of a Holy Grail lost,
whose love for itching
broke out in hives
along the flushed skin.
Temperature about the same
as yesterday,
rhyme outlook low.
Appears tropical
depression here to stay.
10 day forecast
too far out to say.
One never knows,
near or far,
but no one seems
in jeopardy tonight
who sleeps alone
in a bed of stone.
The Coming of the Toads 