Sonnets to a Red-Haired Lady - Part 3
Old Titran loved your sort of fiery mop,
And down his leagues of canvas, crowned with flame,
Walks one long pageant of Torchlight Dame,
Nor hath Oblivion any traffic cop
To bid that bright procession swerve or stop ...
I've heard your brother call you Burning Shame:
Some day I'll bend that poor simp's vital frame
Beyond repair! Suzanne, sweet Carrot Top,
When we are wedded, prithee, don't allow
Your idiot relations near our house ...
My Third Wife's father wagged a silly pow
In all our councils, Susan. Welladay!
They lie in one grave now, my erstwhile spouse,
And he, her sire, who gave the bride away.
And down his leagues of canvas, crowned with flame,
Walks one long pageant of Torchlight Dame,
Nor hath Oblivion any traffic cop
To bid that bright procession swerve or stop ...
I've heard your brother call you Burning Shame:
Some day I'll bend that poor simp's vital frame
Beyond repair! Suzanne, sweet Carrot Top,
When we are wedded, prithee, don't allow
Your idiot relations near our house ...
My Third Wife's father wagged a silly pow
In all our councils, Susan. Welladay!
They lie in one grave now, my erstwhile spouse,
And he, her sire, who gave the bride away.
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