Fiery passions, dire dreams, certainly to be forgotten
fruits of fancy misbegotten,
ardours, thoughts both rich and rotten,
Pushing reason to extremes.
I must fight the urge, it seems, come to make me a believer,
senses sharp and warm with fever,
Come to leniently lever
Some delightful, vivid dreams.
Reveries, in fact, that stir, bold, intense and wicked really
inclinations to act silly,
wanting to be speaking freely,
Of these fancies that recur,
Of the voice that won't stop calling, and this lightness like a drug
like an illness, like a bug,
could one cure it with a hug?
Sense and passion always brawling.
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