It was my dream, a claim to author
    North England Arcades of Song succeeded.
Surely such was needed. Soon to finish,
I had made A Life Arcade.
    Bell Tone Should Sound Strong.
Only the strings of the electrics were
    connected wrong. Soon a new light
would anglify the decked nook
    with sharper definition,
and I could at length recline
    into a simple prose of shade.
The sharp defined.

It falls apart each time. The building of arcades
in rhyme. The studding clumped with pangs, in pine.
Scant frame. Synthetic blue tarpaulin, or
    an heavy canvas over skip-reclaimed spars.
...