Ode to a rhapsody in blue jeans

As if in fast thick pants were breathing,
So said what's his name in a Woolfian stream of thought
But I digress
Coleridge my boy! Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
Or Shakespeare they say.
You speak of things beyond your purview
Tybalt! King of Cats! 
But there was more Horatio! 
More ginger on my fingertips, more flips, tricks, and triptorrents
Two florents for his friend
A coin for the boatswain
And thus the river stix to us like a bad conscious, a smell
Aghast at the nihilist peering into the glossy black abyss of some narcissistic reflection in some dim dew covered pond.
i have sailed to Mount Abora
And on a dulcimer she played

The Lady of Shalott.

But forget-me-not!

Ah nevermore!

Quoth the Raven on the bust of Pallas just above my chamber door. 

They say i have good memory, but only rosemary is for remembrance

Like our friend Waterhouse painted both Ophelia and 

The Lady of Shalott.