This pitchy brew in France is “encre” hight; In this might dire Squamuglia ape the Gaul, For “anchor” it has ris’n, from deeps untold. And: The swan has yielded but one hollow quill, The hapless mutton, but his tegument; Yet what, transmuted, swart and silken flows Between, was neither plucked nor harshly flayed,
Wtf? Is this coded communication?
