Sat upon strong scents The strong musk of loves
Carried forth to Bromdun’s crude Perception. Beauty called.
Falling in strong desire for the Irishmaid She fell not, but draught impudents
Of her loves were that of drunkenness. He did desire her.
She did not know him,— Rather he needed some loves
To long for.—Bereaved of His beautiful lake where the cypress dwelt.
There, at the lake, a shebear foraged, Made herself fat.
She ate her berries, bark and grass Leaves, birch and sassafras.
But a carriage hurled by crass, Out of control, the horses reigned not
And down the steep grade Gone was the carriage that careened
To crush to the core The shebear. The shebear was dead.
The one whom Bromdun now fell in lust Blushed, maybe, by the brute dork
Of his dimwitted mind… For Bromdon wished for death in those days.
But, the beauty of the Irish Countess Causes his heart to cull.
For there was milk and mead enough for pasture But miry was the murk,
The swamp too clammy a causeway To cause her to be his creature
Of adoration. Too many avoidances. She fell in love a lot, too fast for his allowance,
But he lost true love’s cast lot to the wagon For in the wagon was a Fern-fielded lake.
The Shebear was killed Where that foresty shire burnt to desert cold.
For one love a man gets aught And all lost, the beauty of the laurel wreath
Was enough. Let him have her Should she have him,—but she would not.
For no lovesong, not this hour. The bitterness of this lovesong is sour.
So Bromdon awaited on God’s Gift The gift of a second Beatrice.
For Theodore Marmaduke had set To send the Ziddonian as a diversion
To cause Bromdun great pains to pursue Her,—he paid the price of pride
And sanity. He pursued her, patiently, Yet it would prove perfectly
Imprudent, for she did not know him. She let him know not the lot was cast.
For the loss of this lover Was lots cast. For she had never heard his lowing
Like a bull in the wood wont With the loves of wonder.
She never heard. He, in his insanity Wanted his lovesongs to reach her.
But they never did, For Theodore Marmeduke
Knew that Bromdun fell into attraction For the dame, but she did not know him.
For miracles of the sort do not surmise Nor do they surface for Bromdun
Because Theodore Marmaduke Thoroughly maimed his every move.
For she could not fall in love But rather Theodore Marmaduke laughed
To try and cause Bromdun to believe That he bereaved himself of the beautiful lake
Through abuse. But he did not.
He had lost a friend that day.
B. K. Neifert 