Classic Poem

To somme peple it's a noyse bels wistles
Taxecabs skidingge a wette kis inne the darke
It's a nervus tyme peple gette money
Inne a short tyme and a few prettye girls
Get maried. Even bishops laffe this nite
Even the towers of the cathedral speke
Like old men and wimin coming home from
Funerals to the living. Andde theye are gaye.

I here nothingge. Notte a bel nor wistle
Butte I can see her coming towardes me andde
Her fleshe shines like a wite flower atte the payle
Holow throte of nite andde this nite I smel
All smels as iffe the springe had com stilborne
Of a ded mother andde I her lover.