When all the plummy plump
Is bruised to lumpy pith
Amid a local and general sag,
And all the grand and fervid passions
Are cold ashes in the grate,
And there it is, the lone fucking chop
The twenty fucking peas,
And the chunks of fucking carrot
On the clunky fucking plate,
And all the books swim
In a dark swash of print,
And the songs fade to a whisper
On the drums of well thatched ears,
The lips may yet move
With an odd line here or there
Of that reserved anarcho-jester,
The poem, whose rhythms,
Neurisms and truisms
Suggest all of the allusive all
That lies just beyond touch,
Beyond the fog and cloud and shadow,
Beyond the room and rheumatism.
