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For once in a bishop's soutane soaring,
A moon went riding on the haggard
When all of Christendom was snoring,
Coarse as a belfry-batted blaggard,
Polite as the rood of time.
Till and never till the cashiered soul,
Demobbed as a rookery rifle-shot,
Wills and bewails the testament told,
Feathered down in a satin cot,
Swung for a capital crime.
Oh harrow me sideways, if I ever
Desecrate the rushy lake of marrow
With one red cherry stone whatsoever,
Or deflower the bed of passion's farrow
With an ill-winded rhyme.
--
Stephen Moran
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