Lavender, Lavender, all asunder
indulging in endless wonder -
laughing, loving in all that's light
making pastries and flying kites.
The spector of her groom embarks
on something of a lark,
and doesn't tell the sleeping one
and rests his cheek like having fun
on her soul with much delight
as Lavender's leaping takes flight,
and it joyously makes the night
her sepulchre to aghast in heights
of riches of where she felt born
as if the darkness was really morn'.
For in the instant she's all adorn
with the spectacles of a makeshift dream,
she's kissed by a rending seam
and tastes a snippet of the hollowness
of what follows:
And what is more (of the story)
alights on a threadbare shore
with the feet of one
not burned by the sun.
The thread she sees paved
is for a frolick that's saved
for a whistling tune.
The atmosphere is hewn
to slither through for a look
at life's other rook.
And as she does, she sees a nestling sweet
bed where she's lain with a greet
about how her headband never leaves
her bereaved.