Dream Song 84: Op. posth. no. 7
Plop, plop. The lobster toppled in the pot,
fulfilling, dislike man, his destiny,
succulent, and on the whole becoming what
man wants. I crack my final claw singly,
wind up the grave, & to bed.
â€”Sound good, Mr Bones. I wish I had me some.
(I spose you got a lessen up your slave.)
â€”O no no no.
Sole I remember; where no lobster swine,â€”
pots hot or cold is none. With you I grieve
lightly, and I have no lesson.
Bodies are relishy, they say. Here's mine,
was. What ever happened to Political Economy,
leaving me here?
Is a rareâ€”in my opinionâ€”responsibility.
The military establishments perpetuate themselves forever.
Have a bite, for a sign.