Let's hear it for the frenzied fritillaries.
They flit, yes, I am sure they do, but look—
Their wings make boys in Paraguay run backwards
And girls at St Lestrade grow maidenheads.
Have you no hope of following? Well, no,
Not with that punim, marked with freckled dust
Of sweet and sweaty apocalypse; but I
Shall soon arrive, accomplishment no go
And expectation up for sale, reduced
To realistic, pure disapparation.
So grab my hand, descend to Pluto's cave,
Where slopes are slick and trees have been conjoined
And mica and basalt are felonies.
There we shall break our fast. We'll beg to stay
Trunked and taut and parallel forever.
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