A sweet disorder in the dressnKindless in clothes a wantonnessnA lawn about the shoulders thrownnInto a fine distractionnAn erring lace which here and therenEnthralls the crimson stomachernnI'm crying herenWould you ever come with menNever let me infiltrate what I call freennAnd not expecting pardonnHardened in heard anewnThunder and rain with younAnd grateful toonnMy reality for younCould be quenched simply by returningnTo those shores where I might hear your voicenMy reality for younCould be quenched simply by returningnTo those shores where I might hear your voicenIn a cantilena of bluennA sweet disorder in the dressnKindless in clothes a wantonnessnA lawn about the shoulders thrownnInto a fine distraction