who the hell knows anymore?

down at the sunset grill

i'll titrate your vowels, parsimonious bastard,
drop your dang words into a beaker so exactly
you'll be breathing gases straight through the cold snap.

don't you tell me what you're doing with that old piece of booty--
dubloons, vera quartermain, dubloons and carrion thighs
in the hold down under.

elevate the cornice stone, you sap,
and check out what's underneath: a catalog aria, a hill of beans,
my motherfuckin' love, as so:

i love you vera.
vera i love you
i you vera love.
helas my love to leave you (a)
be eth no less than death-- (b)
i know it shan't bereave you (a)
but i shall feel it, struth. (~ b)
my love for you's like roses (~ ~ a)
twined 'round a garden gate: (c)
those thrusted pointed palings (a\c)
too little known, too late-- (c)
or never known too early, (d)
or somewhat known a bit, (e)
or known a tiny smidge, (e +)
if you had my kind of heart, (> d)
baby, if you had my kind of heart. (= > d)

spiky quince is in its blossom-time
like my heart for you.