He’s a hoot, with his flips of the nickel,
his penchant for law, and his playing with volts—
let the lovers be struck! (It’s his joke, on our dime.) And by Jove
what a backside he turns! And by gum what bedeviled
expressions! A scowl full of thous, and the gene pool
is shot. “Thou shalt flower for moments—and rot
for the rest—being flesh, being given to
lust. Say you wanted an ocean of
feeling, or time? Here’s a puddle to
come from, a crack and a crotch.” He’s a hoot,
don’t you think?—there above the commotion, just
finding the bright side, just
winding his watch. . .