Shelley was never one for long goodbyes and Poe bored me so. And yet I stand here pretending as if I were an actor a normal soul how much I’ll never know, so comforting is this self control.
I walked out on Bleaker Street - Piccadilly merchant abound with their draped good tidings and how do you do, how do you do indeed how it made me pucker my brow.
I returned to my Summer Hill Flat poured a tea and tossed my Brown & Hatfield shirt a side bear chest and proud.
I remember yes I do, the bell rang and I stood a fool wearing a frown, Brown &Hatfield no were to be found.
Shelley had drowned; my poor Shelley upon the shore, An Italian shore burned fisted rage no more Shelley, Shelley had burned.
I could hear St, Marks bells off in the distant fog there god awful tone a mournful sound but I shat not shed a tear for Shelley my dear Shelley has burned.
Quite is the keep of somber this heap of toil and trusted memories, Shelley I shall know no more, rusted painted metal my bedpost shall lay still restlessness of thought from the poets still voice- haunts my nights haunt me no more.
Queer this night my heart stands still. Oh Shelley I repeat your words, for Medea's wondrous alchemy,
Which wheresoe'er it fell made the earth gleam
With bright flowers, and the wintry boughs exhale
From vernal blooms fresh fragrance! Oh, that God,
Profuse of poisons, would concede the chalice
Which but one living man has drained, who now,
Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feels
No proud exemption in the blighting curse
He bears, over the world wanders forever,
I withdrew in careworn conclusion, trembling teacup in hand, as the lonely Postman note lay untouched by my tempered scan. Haunted by words that I shed a tear oh my poor Shelley ill know no more.
Is this the summer of my discontent my frosted pain, my shame, where edelweiss and morning glory never do, bloom and I the happy groom.
Shelley is gone long live Shelley, edelweiss peddles gathered in her hair, come spring and a child hood dare. I have married the object of your doom, me poor Shelley your hearts groom.
Brown & Hatfield pressed it all seems so neat, but incomplete, night after night the bell does ring, and the lonely postman leaves another charred letter at my feet.
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