Don't read it

I scorched myself with the bass of yer music,

Apprise ya darling, I hadn't, nor I would have surmounted from my sepulcher, six feet under.

Ain't I sure if really was I six feet under,

or was I flustered with the banishment for being with a forlorn yearning.

Writhed so much with reparation of my horse feathers,

For my feathers bestowed me with reveries of flying.

For I was hovering where even the angels fear to tread,

Christen me no frail, albeit I was wavering in your frenetic downpour,

Ratherish I deem the tenacious as languid as the limp.

They, reapers on avaricious echelons,

Trifling are their ciphers, undeterred by days of yore.

What does a man render of his prodigiousness,

When even a slender slur of his maximis wafts obloquy.

Pardon my forbearance at vilifying the very act of man,

Cause I still wither in dialectics of those three words,

Scarred with the mortal melancholies, the society inbred,

Part of it, I still knock Him,

As I infer all reasons senseless over the very reason of mine,

As I depreciated, I found the petals even in the dirt,

As I spawned the jester in me, the flock sniggled,

Snickered over the imbecilic rhymes of mine,

As the rhymes themselves rolled in the aisles,

Aisles already derogated with outbursts of ardor.

They connoted it with codicils of indocile proneness,

Clauses, of which I still leer, wavering not to be deluded again.

As I try to characterize the man in me,

As I find pretty lot of flaws in me,

The flaws, which partly annotate the karma of the three words.
Hereafter I stay, calm, as I try to reciprocate the old lang syne,
Sometimes it makes us smile, sometime sore, sometime sigh,
Thou shall rise again, shall rule again, shall rejoice again,
Shall recite fables of the elegant enchantress,
Who swayed seasoned stints into a tempest.
How can I not reminisce the winter tide,
When I hauled in haven in the bright sunshine,
I did yodel in the doped gurgle of the bottle,
But ain't I sing the blues of the frame of minds,
Rather I smile on for the beatifying of the man in me,
For I am versed with the adorableness of thine,
For I discerned the winsomeness can't be countersigned anywhere,
Yet be it the stars or the spirits in their own accordance,
I am just a man, mortal in all my finesse,
I shall breathe the reverence of yer verve,
And being with it, I shall crown the spire of this noel,
If thou stumble upon to leaf through this aria of mine,
Do bear in  mind, I dawned into this labyrinthine,
When you whined your swan song,
And I couldn't sit still for the so long,
Cause I still, I don't know how, but I do...
Dumbfounds me as well