The title runneth over

Poem

The title runneth over as a clock,

And whence it takes hours, it is a mystery.

To darkness ever showers with each passing rock

But do not strike the message in its majesty

By the ill-gotten gains of lust’s great travesty

Because lust will have its fall and bluster

While your two great houses crash on the broken steed

And wash away like awe struck muster

And then we can decide the true merits of the mustery

Which the rose smells thusly ranked by any name.

And lines the cock by any other plaguery

And ravages time by any hour all the same.

Then you shall find what you already thus knew

It was a gem on satin all through and through.