The good poet sticks to his real loves, those within the realm of possibility. He never tries to hold hands with God or the human race.
In the tight belly of the dead, Burrow with hungry head, And inlay maggots like a jewel.
Lastly, his tomb shall list and founder in the troughs of grass. And none shall speak his name.
Oh, it is I, Incredibly skinny, stooped, and neat as pie, Ignorant as dirt, erotic as an ape, Dreamy as puberty - with dirty hair!