It is a beautiful pot, It swells like a mother of twins. How he could flick and pick Rotten leaves or yellowy petals, Or scoop out a weed close to flourishing roots, Or make the dust buzz with a light spray, Or drown a bug in one spit of tobacco juice, Or fan life into wilted sweet-peas with his hat, Or stand all night watering roses, his feet blue in rubber boots. As you hang By your nose From a high-up Trapeze. I walk by a dandelion blowing in the breeze. That gives me an idea for a poem, my mind fills up to the top with ideas and the ideas even go down to my knees, soon they will be down to my feet, and I will be so full I will pop.
Club swingers toss up six and eight.
The knife throwers miss each other's ears by a hair and the steel quivers in the target wood. So they live on hate and love as gypsies live in satin skins and shiny eyes. We divide the meat with our followers, Another part we cut in pieces And dry over the fire. And so, hunters, let us be good comrades. The Fishvendor Where he stood in boots in water to his calves, A kind of fisherman, dispensing with a dip-net Sullen carp into tubs of ice, Was only in a tank on the back of a truck.