23/10/2006 7:15:39 PM

Sonnet

The harrow blares his teeth to trumbone,

holding dear the money in his stride -

he has seen, today, tonight, and forever,

the undying redness in purity unfold.

Never let near, says the wolf,

that whore who let down retire,

to a crystal piece of paper and faucet blush,

she has come to the annual praise.

Eventual resistance is deterred,

a joiner is glut in Homer unread,

she utters a fortune from her head,

never letting a letter pass over lid.