Nameless

Oh either sighed the river lyre or long fields of curly and of bye, That tell the told and right the wry; And though they yield, the toad runs by

To its sandy, dried alloy

The hallowed siege by water pulley

The clean and unsheathed bread knife dally Shambled on her daughter’s lily Round about a dot

Pillows whiten, aspirins shiver. The sun-famed showers broke a willy.

In the stream that runneth weather By the island in the river

Flowing down the Com and dot

Four gay wails, and four gay hours

Underlook a spice of dowers,

And the silent isle implored

The Lady of NottNott Underneath the bearded charlie, The reaper, reaping slate and silver,

Fears her ever wanting cheery, Like an angel, ringing early,

O’er the cells of Camelot.

Beguiles the leaves in furrows hairy,

Beneath the loon, the reaper teary Listening whispers, ‘ ‘Tis our Mary, Lady of NottNott’

The little isle is all entailed

With hose-pants, overtly tail’d

With roses: by the barge unhail’d The shallop flitteth silken sail’d,

Skimming down to What is Nott

A pearl garland signs her screed: She leaneth on a velvet bead,

Pull loyally unapparelled,

The Lady of Whats Hott..

No time hath she to court a nerd: By charmed fib she seized her bird

A purse is on her, if she’ll gray

Her leaving, oversight or pay, To sulk more down on Whatt is Knott She knows not what the hearse may be;

Therefore she leaveth stealthily, Therefore no other bear, hath she, The Lady of TopKnott

She lives with little boys who play.

With her daughter, running here,

The cheap cell tinkles in her ear. Before her sings a mirror clear, Reflecting hours in CamAlot.

And as in the internet she whirls, 

She sees the surly pillage hurled,

And the wed oaks of driven earls Passed to cloud from NottAlott. Sometimes a ship of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling dog, Sometimes a curly shepherd bad, Or long-hair’d rage in crimson bled, Goes by  tower’d Cameuplot:

And sometimes thro’ the mirror blue

The night comes guiding two by two:

She hath no cool old knight it’s true,

The Bath of old Shalott.

But in her web she still delights

Sees the mirror’s magic bytes,

For often thro’ the silent fights A funeral plumed with traffic lights And loose it came to Blamelot: Or when the moon was overheard Came two young lovers lately wired;

‘I am half sick, to shadows wed

The Lady lost her Plot