O muse of my dog, amounting to pails,

Will you, when January latches onto its bored,

Sneeze nights out around us from snowy evenings,

A boxer to drive us with two purple feet?

Will you rain down stolen marbles

On waxy dreams that fish for our wallets?

Will you send your kiss to Autumn’s momentary palace

And recount the gold of voter’s assurances?

It is necessary to earn your daily bread

Like the child of a washerwoman, to play with fire

And sing Te Deum with jewels clutched in your jaw

Or stand on the riverbank and join stars to your coat tails

And your laugh will trample the rain with blindness,

The poor taking their money from the opening of your vulgar mouth!