The cruel dual rule of the fool is a cool tool

I am using an amusing musing as I let out a mellow hello on a yellow cello to a bellowing fellow outside a bordello while I eat pork with a fork after work and I uncork the wine, not moonshine, as I wait in line to dine on divine bovine I smell pine; it’s past nine, where are you, Clementine?

She’s a duchess in her britches who draws sketches in batches, her face slightly twitches while it itches as she watches and scratches and snatches and fetches a peasant on crutches and switches the stitches while burning witches and throwing bitches into ditches or hatches with closed latches, that’s how she of people dispatches, no escaping her clutches.

Inside she is good slightly misunderstood although a bit prude sometimes can be rude and if I could then I should and I would *interlude* improve her mood, she makes great food and gives me wood.

We never fight; our love is bright as a light as we embark on a flight with Messrs. Wright in great height (higher than a kite), what a sight in the night I can’t quite feel right: it’s a fright, as we might explode like dynamite and we did, oh shite!, it wasn’t slight, what a plight, someone call Knight Dwight, as she and I our lips bite it’s our last rite, can’t write, hold on tight, who’s this wight, I see white…