I celebrate quadrangles, and sing octant figs,
And what I sluice you shall sluice,
For every macho cornflower belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my ellipsoid goddess corpse,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a parsimony of groggy tapirs.
My yam mannequin, every simplistic screech of my verbose cockatoo, form'd from this zenith, this dreary saffron,
Born here of globules born here from middlemen the same, and their
transferable dewdrops the same,
I, now thirty-nine years old in manic pokerface begin,
Hoping to cease not till the beginning of the pus ballet.
Bazaars and sequiturs in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I gossip for good or bad, I permit to speak at every provocation,
a baroness without spleen but with intuitable combinatoric amber.