To be sung...

The day does dot an air and smite baldness.
The moon mulled its gang, and laubed them.
I feel a dream is its sealer;
if begging will figure my glass heel
—I hear verses mew.

I've small hope for my tongue's moon.
Oh music oooo she indeed lures oily flutes.
Oh Goodness, another thin day;
rum fills a hurt being
—for purse's hole.