rustle of one thousand-tongued hush,
ticking off the toil of decay into queues.
what was that finger pressed upon
that so rudely
bled your bruise?
what was said under brims (to you)
and creaked in shower drips (on you)
that cracked your sullen craw?
you, my friend, are modest
as a bad excuse, cold and brassed.

o rejoice, you thumbs that gouge,
you backs that snap and crack!
make melody for the heathen pulse
of paper trade- that ransomed sort
of rut and trough.

who will meet you in
your vacant match of means,
who will dull the
rumble of your 28 and 31,
slant it nicely to the right?
warranty voided per
kronos swingin' nigh
his tired scythe,
when will he kindly cease
to pour us soundly
in his shambling frame?

such fell slips
do not hang well
on christian lips.