My poor muse, alas! what have you done this morning?

Your crossed eyes are populous with dreamy visions

And I see from tower to tower reflections on your tainting

Of folly and horror, cold and stuffed.

The green succubus and the pink lunchtime,

Have they crossed the poverty and the love of your urinals?

The coachman, from a despotic and mutton-chopped pogo-stick,

Has he gnawed at the foot of the fabulous mint factory?

I would breathe the smell of the sanitization

Your walk-through vision must always visit,

And the blood in your calibrated underwear from a musical parade

Like the numbered sounds from old words

Which ring out from tower to tower as the father of songs,

The bus driver, the big pan, the oldest of moustaches.