Touch of the class
Mystic in pleasing glass
The marvel of time
Sings the golden rhyme.
The mystique of space
Amid the smidgen of ethereal void.
With thousands bled to the class caress,
The moon lustres relentless in gory crusades
To spring ignored glory.
The touch is valid victory
Creed of grandeur crusade.
The moon glides in dainty delight
Amid the wild tender holy bliss.
The silent odes of truth Divine
Strewn in chateaus of celestial wine
Sing O lord in mystic glum
Sing its class in soliloquy.
In lost jingles of a forlorn lullaby
Embellish your tender lips,
On the floating mountain sill
The lost serenade of a neglected dawn
Kissing the caged splendour.
Divine kiss in her warm lips.
The class is a myth, of scrappy wonder.