Vigga the Vølva looked up to the skies
one morning in early August - the augurs
the first of the fall signs were finally here
she mulled over her wild weariness
thinking this was the last serious summer
not knowing where that thought threw itself in
her innards told her with an inkling
of preposterous permenancy that
no way could she have another heat days
like the ones that were just by her
she had seen shooting stars
hot summer eves of yore yonder
the youth of her dog days with Shmuel
it was a daringly daft dream - no nightmare
- just pure earthly delight - of Bosch' beauty
or rather of ironic iconic irascibility
a revel reverie to ponder about on
this mooning morn in her mind.
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