Bob's Bath Supply

Where the sailing boats are pale and green,
Where the water’s brine does quell shadow and bite.
Where through the woods runs an elven queen,
Where o’er her face falls a veil of white.

Where the rain does fall from clouds of dust,
Where maidens, fair, dance with ribbons, blue.
Where a soft caress shall declare the lust,
From the wide purple seas, and rich morning dew.

The stars have all turned to feathers, black,
And my hair is strung from golden oak.
I now shall live amongst the white wolf pack,
In the snow and the dust, my lips shall soak.

So I want to be the master of the seasons-
Want to wash my cheeks in your sweet tears.
Must I remain in philosophy, give you my reasons?
Or escape to the land of the blunt, brief fears.
comment on it too please!