Pilgrim
a wag's sonnet

The poet so oft' speak: 'tween him and when
with love defeat'd, that wars once won with words
will n'ver be lost when come'd the pilgrim forth-
Her prize'd be his; a wag's sonnet they'd be.

A wag's sonnet they'd be, nor more nor less,
but their wait's been vanquished- lone vespers in
abeyance ever held. They'd care no more
the vanity of howling, howling failed.

Without a wit, like cuckoos dazed they'd sing-
on grounds they'd fall from trees, cursed to return
the mutual giggle, unadulterat'd.
So, will his real slim pilgrim, please stand up?

But if the while he thought on pilgrims come'd,
all rhymes are restored and his sorrows summed.

cuRRent...jer  ¶ 5:10 pm