Is this a Latecomer I see before me,
The mouse upon their hand? Come, let me LART thee: -
I see thee not, and yet I know thee still.
Art thou not, late UFie, sensible
To LARTing as to sight? or art thou but
A mpnkey of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from my heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which I now post.
Thou post'st me the thing I was saying
And such an innuendo I was to use.
Mine fingers are made the sore from the typing,
And my mouse hand aches: I post here still;
And on my screen LARTs and innuendos,
Which are there every night. - It's just the thing:
It is the mpnkey business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. - Now o'er the one-half world
Net seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd posting,
Alarum'd by the hour, the latecomer,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. - Thou sure and firm-set board,
Hear my post, which innuendos it makes, for
The very ASCII characters prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror of the time, (good god how late is it?)
Which now suits with it. - Whiles I post, I lives
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
I go, and it is done; the bed invites me.
Hear it not, Latecomer, for it is a siren
That summons thee to sleep not to post.
</bard mode> |
