This Quintessence of Dust  

Forgive me my Lord,
and me Bard, one sees
the soul in process;
the color will change
as the child’s hair is
beguiled in contemplation;
a tea dons vortex in motion,
it was violet perhaps, yet
the theater was ripped
to shreds, and the fortune
was the constant that makes
the binomial a perfect square,
oh beggar the beggar, sly,
(He) belike some noble ass
when he wakes with a head
trifling gas in the funny idea;  
the effects alone are palatable.