Is It Not Strange That

And She's Fair I Love.

Grief Fills The Room Up Of My Absent Child, Lies In His Bed, Walks Up And Down With Me, Puts On His Pretty Look, Repeats His Words, Remembers Me Of His Gracious Parts, Stuffs Out His Vacant Garments With His Form

True, I Talk Of Dreams, Which Are The Children Of An Idle Brain, Begot Of Nothing But Vain Fantasy.

There's Not A Shirt And A Half In All My Company, And The Half Shirt Is Two Napkins Tacked Together And Thrown Over The Shoulders Like A Herald's Coat Without Sleeves.

Time ... Thou Ceaseless Lackey To Eternity.