Time runs apace, my darling bard
And mind rush wildly to know how shard,
And how splitters thy days hath lingered
Does thou know thy scribbles gladdens my need?
Through what i can whisper and those i cannot utter,
Thy scribbles to be of truth sputter,
Is the best,but so grave people sees not,
What can happier make their days nought
To brood, with divine words that gladdens the view
And to tell of how thy pleasant verses, ward my woes;
I happier cannot name what exactly it had done
But to thee my bard proclaim alone,
That no past nor present bard can match thy paw
Thou may see my scribbles as one which gladdens not your maw
But lord Crabbe,thou will virtually perceive
That forth scribble is something told of an infant bard's strive
And heaven art thee now, but i wonder how serene,
Thou pronounced in one of thy lines,
And what the tempter looks like
But, so grave i cannot thy place stake
But i love thee, and wish thy immortal part
If fairy scenes be it, forever never depart
But if it is the tempter,in captivity held
I pray to divine oneness to change thy hold,
To what blissful can restore and serene be thee
With the fairy angels of heaven be
And now to tell thee what i gravely desire
Of thee now to spare,
Thy knowledge of writing—and to God
Ask for thy infant bard's trod
To guide me well and give me bounty fame
Than thee never earthly tame;
I love thee,the gladden sage
And wish thee blissful ticks in age.


—Base Worm