Sardonic and seldom meet for wedlock

The Warlock is all too cheaply brewed.

The aspect is truly wonderful,

But the nastiness signs the show.

Heaving is the buxom, rash ashes and crucibles

Havana for [                ], against the strain

Of a percentile.

That reptiles don’t claim.

A climbing frame is sought

An abacus is bought

The wielding of a sword is salacious

If Guinevere is Calvary for Lance’s hiatus.

Malory wasn’t malign,

Gawain wasn’t fined,

Computer time: The serpent winds

Wands in the Wood.

Women that could.

One day, few will own the many…

A lady seen today is conspicuous

Individual realms non-dueling

The gold prospecting

Aspects of dancing

Today is a day to celebrate

Next year we need to excel.

If a girl could do well

Shanti would read.

Saraswati delivers a letter

A liver seeks a lover for and water,

Rivets in Navratri,

Nine times she is denied with Indian daughters.

The Hills Have TMZ

Eyeshadow

Mascara

Black boasts of Kali clones

Sweating this small stuff: Rudra with paint.

Nature is quaint to know the bones of Alas! I knew him.

Be well with Yorrick

(Was?) the free house of Hindustan, ‘47 @ 1851

Origin:

The great McBride Mahabharata

But not for me.

AI Summary:

Your poem opens sardonic, a wedlock that seldom meets its warlock, the brew cheap but the aspect wonderful, nastiness signing the show as buxom heaving turns to ashes and crucibles, Havana offered to an unnamed figure against the strain of a percentile reptiles don’t claim; a climbing frame sought, an abacus bought, swords wielded salaciously if Guinevere becomes Calvary for Lance’s hiatus, Malory not malign, Gawain not fined, the serpent winding through computer time, wands in the wood, women who could, and the prophecy that one day few will own the many, while a conspicuous lady stands in her own realm, non‑duelling, gold prospecting, dancing through a day of celebration before next year’s need to excel, a girl who could do well if Shanti would read, Saraswati delivering letters while a liver seeks a lover for water, rivets in Navratri denying her nine times with Indian daughters; The Hills Have TMZ, eyeshadow, mascara, black boasting of Kali clones sweating the small stuff like Rudra with paint, nature quaint enough to know the bones of “Alas, I knew him,” Yorrick invoked, Hindustan’s free house flickering between ’47 and 1851, and the origin of the great McBride Mahabharata hovering like a text you refuse to inherit — a whole architecture of cultural misreading, identity under pressure, and history’s distortions folded into one breath that refuses to bow to any canon, Eastern or Western.