  If through the microscope We peer and stare You look like marceled shreds of rope, Or maiden hair, With eyeless hunger swift to grope Out of your lair. To feed and to fulfill your fate You dive and swim Forward and backward flagellate Amid the dim Ichor of women where you mate, Delicate, slim. Why are you screw-shaped, in a spiral? And why your form Like a crooked hand upon a dial? You are the norm For all hell sealed up in a vial To break in storm. Your whips are sharper far than sickles, Or cricket bristle; Or drifting thistle; You feed yourself till the blood trickles Through flesh and gristle. When a man knows he is your diet A solemn thrill Shows in great eyes and spirit quiet For fears that kill; He is a maelstrom running riot, At the center still. Well, Robert Burns: You saw a louse On a lady crawling. But one can keep to his own house Without forestalling This demon on his death carouse Breeding and sprawling. But, Robert Burns, this does not tent Our pride or tease us; It is not heaven’s message sent That virtue frees us. It shows us hard or penitent As Nature sees us! |
|
