The babbling brook burned a hole through the dock
And the teacher burst the children's chalk like the
Fourth of July with the fireworks
going off all over the
sky, the pastor looks at me and says,
“Son, your mother was born to die.”
Smiling, soaring, sinning; But men must lie
in an ashen cocoon,
Words were fed to me
Like a soup ate from a fool with no spoon.

Hurdling horses
Cursing crooks,
Weeping trees, the
Widow leaves the
Harlots and the heavens and the
Sunsets and seas,
And the mermaids crowned with wreaths
Sing their chant from the trench of the deep,
Sing their song, drenched in the deep
blue seas, never-ending sea.