Whatever I do there is always an image,

Which hurts too much from within;

Wherever I go there is  likely to be a cleavage,

 which made my life boat careen.

Whenever I see the looming image,

There seems to be a spillage

Of tender and quiet vowels,

Calling  for some petal towels…

In  order to dry out my tears,

To cancel impudent laity sneers

I bring along the ivy twine,

Thrashing down that image of mine.