Range, Range the Words Around

Nature is full of rhymes.
So is man’s head.
In these, the evil times
The silly, the half-dead
Hum while committing crimes,—
And so to bed.

Bloody old couch. I’ll write
No rhymes to pleasure such,—
Odd phrases for the night.
Wash hands to quit their touch,
Fix eyes to out-stare sight
And not say much.

Or say their guilt is mine.
The bloody couch mine too.
And have her in to dine,—
The colossal strumpet who
Spills guilt with the old wine
And the idiot new.

Range, range the words around.
How shall we fix the scale?
Long silence and no sound,
And all the risk to fail.
Then on new ground
Begin the tale.