One of those nights where I want to write something here, but I can’t think of anything meaningful to say. Plus, it’s getting late and I don’t want to get wrapped up in writing a long post, so what to do? What to do?
How about this? It’s a bit esoteric, but any literary-types out there, guess what this comes from:
He’d a French cocked-hat on this forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
it is from the highwayman