“Stay, jailer, stay, and hear my woe,” repeating again and again, very softly, the line at the end of each stanza, “I am not mad, I am not mad.” Except she sang it: “I yam not mad, I yam not mad.”
But she made no secret of her disappointment at our lack of campery.
When comes the ferry of the curious stare / From ports beyond horizons of the oddsome lobe, / The island hides its nature from the littoral glare / And lets the windblown dunes it's soul enrobe.
And let us begin with those sympathetic elements, the tricksters who obtain the lovers and the land, always at the expense of fools and knaves, sometimes at the expense of other tricksters.
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