Touch of the class

Mystic in pleasing glass

The marvel of time

Sings the golden rhyme.

The mystique of space

Moseyed ablaze

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.

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