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Poem	An apple arc'd toward Kleitos; whose great King wroth & of wine did study where his sword, sneaked away, might be . . . with swollen lids staggered up and clung dim to the cloth of gold. An un-Greek word blister, to him guard, and the trumpeter would not sound, fisted. Ha, they hustle Clitus out; by another door, loaded, crowds he back in who now must, chopped, fall to the spear-ax ah grabbed from an extra by the boy-god, sore for weapons. For the sin: little it is gross Henry has to say. The King heaved. Pluckt out, the ax-end would he jab in his sole throat. As if an end. A baby, the guard may squire him to his apartments. Weeping & blood wound round his one friend.
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