Quids the goddess of love,are made to love a lover's charm and a gracious fireproof upon which it is planted are the damsels'earth.Tis the nuptial knot,they hardly fizzle out.A seed sown is the lover's charm and hardly skunk over love sovereign goddess of muse it is sown.And now she weeps at his feet and calls him lord and he calls him bitch.Now was she servile to his wanton lewd,to seize love where it is bought to gazeth she on him with fondness and ecstasy of the gods.She feedeth on the humus of his filthy lucre,like a parasite,a flea to flippancy parade.Narcisus so he himself fathom someday surety slander vamoosed,would in thy palm not hardly melts.Slanderest sports waylaid where the gnomes of zurich wanderlust runaway.And not misty vapours,blot from the drowning the sky,where machismo substerfuged with obloque.Charles Dicken
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