Verdi wrote a pretty pipe text furnished by a brush
fire Verdi in a pincer form of hesitancy brimmed
over overtly with an urge gleaned from projection
to meringue some geometric scarves into sonority

now the feather hazards line these fricative
young streets and parings of the clot of sub
stance load a tiptop tonal range that one
might learn thus to accomodate sprung hissy

fits of doublet or duvet a farthing from
the real thing nesting in a plot and carved
from robust moodlined silver bay ridge
something Verdi was a pomp boy simmering

with volume and minced nest and he was right
about the womb thing worlded he was also
priding selves of his on some normal dist-
bequeathed to who he was and would be (will)