Of Wasted Time

Across our sonnet-scape they wing their flight,

the little kiss god and his Cyprian dam;

fleet the Eumenides pursue: bleared sight,

brow-trenches, and a flabby diaphragm -

which plunges sonneteer in piteous plight.

Then of her beauty does he question make;

yet, having proved it but a diagram,

he falls to substancing his lovely sham,

as dreamer his dream darling, half awake.

Gather we rosebuds! - but the day is late,

the gardener goes armed, the great I Am

will merely put us out and lock the gate.

Safer to sup our consolative dram

of ninety-five proof humdrum laced with hate.