In the grim back alleys of the city,Mean streets devoid of all signs of pity,Amid the piles of decaying refuseAnd slimy pools of darkly noxious ooze,Frequented only by the scuttling ratsAnd noisome tribes of scabby feral cats;Here, slumped in doorways, human flotsam lies,Just filthy piles of rags crawling with flies.In such surroundings, one would not expectTo find evidence of beauty’s rare spark,Yet with more careful eye...
Trippingly prancing upon the stage boards glancing about for the lost Elinor stealing the scene as I spread forth my wings grieving for lines, more lines to feed to her so that our acting will not be for naught peevish my speech can be at times I know but without a cue from the script I lose and she steps upon my brief monologue taking center stage and all of the bows I retreat to the wings and pass back stage awaiting he...
