  Born with a monocle he stares at life, And sends his soul on pensive promenades; He pays a high price for discarded gods, And then regilds them to renew their strife. His calm moustache points to the ironies, And a fawn-coloured laugh sucks in the night, Full of the riant mists that turn to white In brief lost battles with banalities. Masters are makeshifts and a path to tread For blue pumps that are ardent for the air; Features are fixtures when the face is fled, And we are left the husks of tarnished hair; But he is one who lusts uncomforted To kiss the naked phrase quite unaware. |
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