299__Ma' Maugham, her jewels in the canopy, pallid and starlit,
met the glitters of the sky nets in the sunlit.
Hell's passports do pour rain upon the meagre Djinns
that travail her engine,
like Gremlins,
to a crit to tell (written in their genes.)
Dancing like a banshee in the suburbs of Nauplia,
a single habit makes the best of many a plea.
Hell and me.
The fens of Easter follow the cairns' arrow
the quiet John Donne lent from his bow quiver's barrow
that tweets on the roofs like a sparrow.
On a vapore to Venice polls slowed our advance,
one boat passed us touting our wreck like a lance,
I sent some wrens
to come on in, enhance their fame, rescue Ma' as cute aerial marines,
and quench the parts she lost to the golden rain
that assailed her loins.
In may Ma' Maugham wins sainthood on the verge,
and crows will bend their claims to a surge,
a desire worthy of eagles,
caught napping in the moors of their eyes,
soaring faster into the mien of the skies
than the day they quacked petty cries below their undies.
So let it be when vain quandaries the sun veiled
share new odious shadows the sun ailed.
Kisses that may retard mouth some loud moss
and pose a motet susurring wild prose on the reins
of her segmented hand lost to the mains
where she farmed out all the vigilant guards of her gloss.
Once and for all the mooted things that we chose to let whine
cease to beak most of those beacons we knew were lained
in the dark alley
left regarding the tombs holy shores,
and praising the facts of the god Amor,
in secrecy's line.
Ma' Maugham's spirits in the sun do not play the sherbets,
her ice doesn't melt that easily in the sunbelt's
sole eye.
Unappeased by the Rogogines
who try to avail the sinners we've seen
rotate again, eating their tails.
met the glitters of the sky nets in the sunlit.
Hell's passports do pour rain upon the meagre Djinns
that travail her engine,
like Gremlins,
to a crit to tell (written in their genes.)
Dancing like a banshee in the suburbs of Nauplia,
a single habit makes the best of many a plea.
Hell and me.
The fens of Easter follow the cairns' arrow
the quiet John Donne lent from his bow quiver's barrow
that tweets on the roofs like a sparrow.
On a vapore to Venice polls slowed our advance,
one boat passed us touting our wreck like a lance,
I sent some wrens
to come on in, enhance their fame, rescue Ma' as cute aerial marines,
and quench the parts she lost to the golden rain
that assailed her loins.
In may Ma' Maugham wins sainthood on the verge,
and crows will bend their claims to a surge,
a desire worthy of eagles,
caught napping in the moors of their eyes,
soaring faster into the mien of the skies
than the day they quacked petty cries below their undies.
So let it be when vain quandaries the sun veiled
share new odious shadows the sun ailed.
Kisses that may retard mouth some loud moss
and pose a motet susurring wild prose on the reins
of her segmented hand lost to the mains
where she farmed out all the vigilant guards of her gloss.
Once and for all the mooted things that we chose to let whine
cease to beak most of those beacons we knew were lained
in the dark alley
left regarding the tombs holy shores,
and praising the facts of the god Amor,
in secrecy's line.
Ma' Maugham's spirits in the sun do not play the sherbets,
her ice doesn't melt that easily in the sunbelt's
sole eye.
Unappeased by the Rogogines
who try to avail the sinners we've seen
rotate again, eating their tails.
Jean Ferrat, Ma Môme, 1959
Ma' Maugham, 2014
Ma' Maugham, 2014
