My tyrant bade me twist her a rondeau.
Methinks ’twas deleterious to my brain!
I loved her (though her name was Mary Jane):
She died of D. T. many years ago.
A Rondeau? Humph! Ha, hum! Egad, just so!
“Five rhymes in ain and eight remain in O.”
Eh, no, Voiture! For they be all inane.
Why do I wander?
White though the head be, red’s the nose below—
(Bright beams a light-house spite a roof of snow)—