the bard

a middle aged man from Spain in designer jeans asked me to write him a song so i said i'd write him several and he could choose one. this is what i've come up with this morning then he turned to me to say i assume you are au fait with the chef's superlative souffle

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves, And ye that on the sand with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green, sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime Is to make...