Lo how his mind doth wander like a magic wind
That unto every part imparts a myth
And into every eyes a golden mist
That frames the heart and soft betrays the mind.
Thus in perverse imaginings behold
The treacherous siren-song of thought awry;
The sorry soul's forgotten strengths decry
In mourning for a keen eye now grown old.
These are the phantasms of our age, which tear,
When three score years have filled our tale,
And leave, bewildered as our friend Rapaire,
The shell of dust, blown hazy down the vale.

Agonistes Murphy Junior
Tough Songs from a Tough Town
Oedipal Press, Humping-on-Molme, 1875