Lite is the road that traces to Mount Holyroot.
Graceful is thy song humming my sigh.
To the pale lace ornamenting the loop,
I chug a poor tiny bug moored to a shell.
IT did beaucoup cry small blue yap et yap-yap.
O dispense the brevity of thy pardon to a bevy.
Out of the woods, I can sense the bravura.
Facing the moaning moon, a cloud chokes with mulled wine.
