Lemon broth may not exist my love,

but maybe you could make it,

then let the locals scoff and shout

that they will not take it.

A pie

a pudding

a pretty soufflé

is what they expect to see.

But let your imagination play –

it matters not to me.

My brain is braising from the day,

my eyes are burning red,

and the buds along my tongue are dry

with little left unsaid.

Lewis is not the only one

to talk nonsensical things.

Why should only he have all the fun

with his cabbages and kings?

But I am done for now my love;

I have spun out all my spinning’s.

The horses have crossed the finish line,

and I have collected my winnings.