Thou art the Golden Eagle, swooping from Thy nest, Tugging at those lesser things and claiming to know best: "The field mouse is a filthy fool The fox is sickly sly;
Little bubbles jump From the cider I drink in the morning. I was counted among the children once. Ah, last night's thuddering shudding rhythm won't stop... I put on my boots and
with grand chugging convulsions of the bowel, the two great men seated squat anchored by entropic trails of poo, their worlds separ- ated by thin balsawood partition