At last we meet, Miss Stella Penelope Jones,
newly immersed in this cauldron of groans
that subside as I write into mellower tones
so that you may hear the fundament in the drones
as God pops out from ethereal thrones
and illumines the waste with his myriad stones.
And Being rivers athwart the fiery cones
in search of newest life, speedily hones
its way, alerted to your sweet, subsiding moans
by the full moon and her manifold, distant clones
spread out on yon celestial Rhines and Rhones.
Someday you’ll read, as others attend to my bones,
some lines I composed for you, dear Penelope.
Will their badness make you think well of me?
Miss Stella Penelope? Penelope Jones?