A Sour Apple Ripe

Many a soured apple ripe
thought of sweetness grip
by hand of cider-press22 gripe
while upon poetic pages I flip
as if a myrtle-bush wants trimming
whereby my leaden vase is brimming.

While of this meal we feast together
while on platter sits the swines snout
wise of talk is kinda like the weather
as bears what season comes about
‘tis scarcely of that what we wish to hear
as prior doubt, cold seasons, the time of year.

Forsooth that is ever so fit to our chaps
when rinsing dishes and goblets for our self
when steeping stresses and the lily snaps
when laid with care upon our own shelf
it is then cross-wise, to my recollection
as the summer heat is to my reflection.

For of the fork and knife that is never laid
the feast where Barbary eye furnishes fire
for here the initial urge is bare handed played
by they whom of care is but for what they desire
as I have furnished this poetic page as ye have read
‘twas a sour apple ripe, that griped my heart grip bled.

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