Some-day on unseen fowl should ye feast,
unwitting and unvexed for twenty dawns,
till one day breaks like molehills unto beasts—
a stippling unlike spots upon a fawn.
Pray, loll about the bed if yt you please,
or swoon recumbent in an herbal bath
to make a tepid soup rife with disease,
perchance to soothe its foul, loathsome wrath.
Indeed refrain from forming joyous throngs
(no schoolhouse for a sennight, maybe more).
But ye wanted to go viral all along,
And now ye have without even a troubadour!
Yea, Heav’n always sends thy perfect match,
Its hooly image made by God from scratch.