In the slovenly laboratory we call
Society sometimes a poet will crawl –
Great big unsupervised baby – up the wall
And from a bottle on the topmost shelf
Marked Danger, Do Not Touch, or Self,
Swallow, and in the slow paralysis
And death that follow scrawl
In blood, vomit or piss:
‘God damn you all,
God bless you too – but don’t drink this.’

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