Drunk on naught but the sound of the pouring

of bottle into glass.  He says: "Say what you will, lass--

I've some few Florins to my name I would send soaring,

had I not forgotten Mass!"

These were the shouts of triviality and lack of schedule,

as my lovedy thinks grand.  He absolutely has no hand

for intrusive thinking--nor of full potential;

think he handle money? No!  He's the woman; I'm the man.

His head falls and snores catch like stars in atmosphere;

soft sounds put me to sleep, too.  Fay visits dreams and sings: "Remember you?

Little black-haired fille when he weds you at your fifteenth year?"

"Nay," I say, then counting backward: "Innocence is just cuckoo."