O' what tortures doth thee press Naniness?
Hast thou bee's swarm hidden in thy bonnet,
As thou dost perplex with thy wordiness?
Bardess, what creature this, evil sonnet?
That doth confound poetic neophyte.
As did Moses, lead to thy promised land,
With thy learned teachings, show me bard's light,
So I might scribe as doth thou bardess hand.
I fear I sink in ocean of despair,
As from mine head, with trembling hand I pull,
What doth remain, what once was known as hair,
I beg of thee, as runneth out of mine bull,
I close with this, in all seriousness,
I read in awe, poetic gems of Ness.