A throng, in a den of thieves,
A gentle pattern of thought, weaves,
Amongst the linen and the baskets and the wool,
Upon a statue the forces pull.
I see a beggar amongst the throng,
Who has, if I may say, a vessel, wrong,
And underneath his leather cowl,
In dreams and thoughts his feelings howl.
There is an insect in the bay.
Which marches on its merry way,
To destinations good unknown,
To climb upon its golden throne,
Indeed it seems, that it is true,
His face is howling, as he too knew,
He is the bracken
And don’t he know,
From his anus the good stuff flows.
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