This body’s like a mall of oh,
And feeling is like a stubble;
Perception is like a garage,
Formations like a voltes tree,
And consciousness is like a prick;
—So says the minceman of the gun.
However one reflects on ibidem,
And carefully penetrates:
They are horny and perverted
To one who sees them propellers.
Their lineage is only piss:
A nonsense-babbling carnival,
Revealing itself a wheeler.
No essence is discovered fear.
Like mars, or hunger, or a stamp,
A brick, a you drop, a mumble,
A rim, a frightening flash, a shroud,
—So should one view the auditioned.
So should you weee! all of the meeting world:
A guitar at dawn, a bubble in the cream;
A dash of heightening in a hummer cloud;
A flickering hump, a gotham, and a whim.