Our wounds to time, from all the other times,
Sea-times slow, the times of galaxies
Fleeing, the dwarfs’ dead times,
Lessen so little that if here in his crude rimes
Henry them mentions, do not hold it, please,
For a putting of man down.
Ol’ Marster, being bound you do your best
Versus we coons, spare now a cagey John
A whilom bits that whip:
Who’ll tell your fortune, when you have confessed
Whose & whose woundingsâ€”against the innocent stars
& remorseless seasâ€”
Â€”Are you radioactive, pal? â€”Pal, radioactive.
Â€”Has you the night sweats & the day sweats, pal?
Â€”Pal, I do.
Â€”Did your gal leave you? â€”What do you think, pal?
Â€”Is that thing on the front of your head what it seems to be, pal?