"I fear for thee, rubicund weaver. He who ploughs across powdered damslely orchid fields. He with yellowy moon, graze me ´neath fragrant myrrh. ´Hove an host, gashed rhyme wisp dazzle. Meadowly opaque, the trance sway begotten and ghostish cloud Lord devour the swift gorse....and so I taketh Thee, ill twined clave. Spiralled tusk, spun out of hell. Beneath Death´s yawning gap and its cradling murmur of the abyss, a caleidoscopic lethargy of intoxication bewitch´d my temples. A conical vulture, daubed in yealding foam.

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