The Black Tuniced Historian

Beautiful Where I wallow on spaces Mixture Crossiant and apple seed Or tonic sans mead For such stuff one bleeds In asphyxiating tweed The silk-knotted obligation noose Hear me, children Saith one A black tuniced historian Perilous perched on spires Gonging and ticking and ceaseless Like Stygian fire Hear me, quoth he Tick-tock, tick-tock And wallets are all we we require