Never a clever Meriwether,
without a faithful Clark.
Hold aloft the golden tether,
against the vagaries of dark.
Luminous a blissful kiss,
it’s mate, a tender touch.
With this, a special emphasis,
A joy, a pain, a crutch.
When will you be back, my dear?
This bed is mighty cold.
I doubt I’ll make another year,
Tristan-less Isold’.