Wuthering Heights

…

’Tis thy affection’s on tip of a golden string,

With salt box of my minds chattering in beseech, 

Thou art canvas for a willow I never leaned on, 

Plain ov’r which’s to get dusty lips I never briefly touched. 

‘Tis thy presence in the garden we used to chase ‘round, 

With plaque plagued of need for a wanion-of leech,

Thou art harasser conveyin’ con-free childhood,

Struggle which’s to cut th’ willow I anon leaned on,

Escape to which’s to see sweven of hands were never mine,

‘Tis how leftst renegatin’ our Wuthering Heights.