We sit beside the eel
The birds before me and beneath the table
I am in the shade of a Sycamore
And clover are my pillow
The star is burning hot and bright
And going with ease towards the line
Our Lady of the Dark and Foggy Night
Slumbers, contained, inside the golden vessel
She is restricted from these grounds
By the order whose phone is angles, paint, and metal
Though she is beside the contender, and well
A pee grows again in my palid loins
That sometimes burn as the star when with nightshade
I have scrubbed with eel juice and dander
Praised the Contender
Waited for the Ogoroo
Gifted the brazen Hanger
Carried and drank from the cup of the Present Loss
Toked from the Yar pouch
And scribbled this here at Tooby, four fifteen aught ten
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