What a Muse Meant
Hail, divinest Melancholy,
You’re much more fun than being jolly!
Hymns devout and holy Psalms
Fill the air as we drop our bombs.
I have some naked thoughts that rove about
In search of seamstresses to clothe my doubt.
To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow
She hung a fig-leaf o’er what lies below.
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights,
My love and I seek our delights.
Her high birth, and her graces sweet,
Are canceled by her smelly feet.
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