My Mistress' Scales
My mistress' scales are not like burnished gold;
Old slush is far more white than her small fangs;
If slim be in, why then her chest is out;
If tails can flop, a floppy tail there hangs.
I have seen fine pearls gleaming, blue and black,
But no such treasures see I in her eyes;
And in some gas swamps is there purer fire
Than in the breath that from my mistress fries.
I love to hear her roar, yet well I know
That pigeons make a far more frightening sound;
I grant I never saw an angel fly:
My mistress, when she goes, ploughs up the ground;
And yet, by my gold, I think my love as fair
As any jewel I ever hoarded in my lair.
Part of a larger project, which accounts for apparent randomness! All comments appreciated.