Ye aulde Wrath of a forgotten whistling keetle

« What is love » ? asked this bird, Standing there, On a leaveless tree With some carved hearts and under the sky. « Thousands of bushes of those hoaxes of mere melancoly », I said loudly, In my still boiling heart they grow, somewhat… In this heart whose the owner I am, My private poperty, My stony heavy claim and that punches as a groggy boxer, And still either seems that real estate, True private poperty of my chest, love’s jail… It boils as a forgotten whisting keetle Opn a forgotten stove, To make forgotten tea, As bitter as cod-liver’s oil Of forgotten childhood And yesteryears ». « Wrath ! » quoth this raven from nowhere and aside. Singing hatred is not a fairy tale, Thought my love is still a-roving, So late… Desolated, And for, You were once A true love o’mine. « Wrath ! » quoth this raven from today’s evil hours And the end of everything is my own daily death : I love you.