Old Pluvius, month of reigns in peavish mood, Paws from his urn, chill, winters, saddened gloom. And corpses fading in the near graveyard, And foggy suburbs, paws, life's tedium, My cat seeks out a litter on the stones. Her main-gye body turning without rest, An ancient poet's soul in monotones, Wines in the rain spouts like a chill-blane ghost. A great bell-morns, a wet log wrapped in smoke, Things in false-settle to the weezing clock. While from a wrinkling perfume deck of cards, A drop-sicle old crones fatal bequest, The queen of spades, the depper jack of hearts, Speak darkly of dead loves how they were lost.