To my dear Benjamin Franklin.
I glance upon soft whispering eyes,
Your mind soars,
And your heart sighs,
Oft the dreams of what ought to be,
Stretch before your mind, an open sea,
Whilst- pen to paper- you jot your words,
Lace covered knives that should pierce like swords,
For ’twas the nature of that ne’er shy irony,
And though some drew fast their long-held blinds,
Others heeded and used their minds.