Nursery Tales and Fairy Rhymes

Sensuality, sensitivity, censor all save proclivity.
In the hour of the mouse
When the clock has struck me down,
My courage will never waiver
Like the smile of a clown.
When my pockets, full and gaudy,
Have extended beyond my body;
When the nourished epidermis
Has marked a stretch of pastry kiss,
My mind, smoked like hickory,
Fathoms ding-a-derries and dickory.
And the every and the all
Is just an eggshell on the wall.
Hickory, dickory, doctor- the mouse ran up and clocked her.
The clock struck a cheek.
The blood, diluted and weak.
No more thicker than water,
Contrary to what I taught her.
Why the mouse ran blindly down
To the solemn sanctum of ground;
What was in that gentle town,
Save the Piper's fluty sound?
My heart fluttered like sparrows
Before the boy who shoots the arrows.
And the nothing and the nil
Is just a whey and curdy spill.
Sensitive, sensual, I sensed a paused perpetual.
A tree held Alice sleeping
Whilst my words were crassly creeping.
My home, oh my home
Was lost in the volumes of a tome.
Who could carry a crown of laughter,
Where my thoughts came tumbling after?
How can a clock berate
By the tick-tock of a hue too late?
My power of verbose banter,
Succumbed to candid cantor.
And all the while and all the during
Is mere talu to keep her stirring.