Sonnet
Iffe I cude have a sonne I wude want his mother to
Be a beutiful happye ladye andde she to shayke her hed atte me
Lyke a marygolde O the wynde has notte anye nose to mayke
Its chekes thyne butte a brest itte has to crushe
The flowers offe springe aganst inne yonge wulde wulde tormente
Iffe I cude have a sonne I wude wishe him a fool withe the
Voyce of a miror that forever singes the songe offe its luvers
Andde the fayce offe a wyse man the wunde the wunde to crunche
Unlocked wyndos andde to clymbe tres lyke anger throughe
A colde madde irish brane a furye ther lyke beutye onne the
Hilsyde stons lyke flowers inne manye colors flowers that
Beginne withe thum owne rootes andde ende atte sonesette inne a shadowe
Andde the beutiful ladye wude tayke him frum me his father
Andde I wude finde him agane as winde findes the ende offe a storme
Be a beutiful happye ladye andde she to shayke her hed atte me
Lyke a marygolde O the wynde has notte anye nose to mayke
Its chekes thyne butte a brest itte has to crushe
The flowers offe springe aganst inne yonge wulde wulde tormente
Iffe I cude have a sonne I wude wishe him a fool withe the
Voyce of a miror that forever singes the songe offe its luvers
Andde the fayce offe a wyse man the wunde the wunde to crunche
Unlocked wyndos andde to clymbe tres lyke anger throughe
A colde madde irish brane a furye ther lyke beutye onne the
Hilsyde stons lyke flowers inne manye colors flowers that
Beginne withe thum owne rootes andde ende atte sonesette inne a shadowe
Andde the beutiful ladye wude tayke him frum me his father
Andde I wude finde him agane as winde findes the ende offe a storme
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