Your thing of beauty

Little purple flower 

When the rose thorn of indifference 

Pricks my septic Constance

And the wheels of fate cavort and plunder 

Twoccing along the highway of my bleary incipience 

Like an abattoir on wheels 

Making a meal of killing it

Staking out and spilling it

Like a torn and bloody petal

You remain ecstatic

More immaculate and Magic 
than a lone bright star 

Hung aloft the night

Like the painting in the attic 

Little purple flower 

I'm dancing on your beauty

Like a bullock in the heather 

Your thing of beauty is a joy forever

You never doubt or phase me  

Much less do you betray me.

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