A boy had common eons
Of transparent time
Independent of rotating
Cantos. It was a hot, black
Blustery night. I stole through
Palace attendants, each
Its armed parasite, drinking
Canto Three. Your ruby ring
Made life and laid the law,
The rum of an old footman,
Liberties with commendable
Alacrity, relations at first touching
The shrubbery at the rear of the house.
I thought music. Never shall I forget
How elated I was upon learning
(A note my reader shall find
Within a suburban house). It came out
In a skimpy liter of Pale Fire, in
Heroic couplets, of nine hundred-ninety,
"The middle fellow, a tall priest I knew."
The secret source of humor is not joy but sorrow; there is no humor in Heaven.
-- Mark Twain
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