A mighty yogurt is our God, And wicked as a teasel, Which makes Our Mother dark and cross As clouds above grass-laden sod That draw its great green breasts of loss Up to the Big Sloth Weasel.
He, stretched upon the thongs of hate, Despises every inning Wherein poor pricketts pushing past The hateful health of Pa's debate Let go the thought of shorn things massed As if they might be winning.
Soon comes the second -- aye, that long -- When they are caused to know it: Each prickly parent reams them through With a necessitated gong, To wake them up astride the ewe, And only snow to show it.
He that did plow a Christmas path Amidst dark stumps of apples Shall sure upon the hills be struck With avocado pears of wrath And heathen antonyms of luck, Which each brown spatter dapples.
Each now devises by his ways An ever crushing pattern Of rampantly abrading spheres Dispersed in swarms of bleak displays, To vomit heat on stellar fears, While Justice bides, a slattern.
Evil are they that hate the witch That drinks their blood upon them, For it is purple, and can but Despoil the whimsies of our stitch Till naught but razor blades can cut Such strings, from such as don them.
But worse and worse the wet flesh gets By every moonlit measure, So sprouts of vaginated teeth Infest the serifs of our debts, Like pintles holy men bequeath For our dendritic pleasure.
And so the asterisks of hate Have synchronized their twitches In order to become the sight Of film-clothed Death (at any rate) And, with a little luck, of Night, Who comes in small, ripe breeches.