Thoughts Uric and Urinary, Or: Does She of a Morning Stand Before Some Wicked Ablutionary Sink

As I stood before the porcelaneous basin, And streamed into its already uric and xanthous-stained depths, A stain, a sight and a liquid yet yellower and more urinary; And as cloudiness, not of mind, but of that which is uric attended the Deposition, a thought occurred unto me, and it poetically and psalmically Collected and gathered and arranged itself, so that it was as follows: Does she of a morning stand before some wicked ablutionary sink, That vile whorish slattern who devoutly believes that only dulcet voices Emanate from the mouths of the damned in the pits of the lowest Hell? What fell and foul rites does she with hands cleansed with foulest, Blackest, evilest water; which of these wickednesses does she perform And practice, she who washes her hands in the black-flowing waters of The Stygian pit? Who is this damned damsel, dame, and maiden fell and foul and not a bit Fair, who as a fool believes that there are melodious voices echoing in a Mellifluous and delightful chorus in the lowest pits of Hell? Though I doubt not that therein there be many an ungodly maiden: Indeed, the blackest, foulest, ungodliest of fell and evildoing maidens: Plaguing and blighting the very pits of Hell, who is to say that their Feminity alone endows unto them a felicity and a melodiousness of tone? That is doubtless the (unsound) thought that crept into the very Black heart of she who wrote those foul, foolish words; But to me, not even the godliest or the goodliest of men, But inditing ever of good with heart, and tongue and mind and pen, For such is the great purpose of art such as this, no? Withal, to me, she spoke of foolery, and of folly. Lest she be speaking facetiously, in her daft assessment Of foulest Sheol, she surely was wrong. Wronger than wrong, if such a thing ever be. And in my mind, as I urinated, I thought these poetic, psalmic thoughts. And, though there be hundreds of characters and spaces remaining, Touching this and that and all things else And any number and all manner of good Or e'en fell and foul Matters, I haven't a word else to say. The poem is expended, completed, done today And so am I, with it at least, I must say.