Made up of idealism
Thou art so fair when you
circle ’round there, tearing up the
rusty dirt, the soil of good sir mockery
making all things flockery
feather v’s to frosty night.
Just like others, a maiden’s plight
zeros and 1s making history of the messy scene
sorry old concept aged like wine in a fine time
of fright and compromise
cast a crown shadow, crossing the meadow
maiden breath blue frozen air
with the last phrase of winter on good sir’s tongue.