Henry of Donnybrook bred like a pig, bred when he was brittle, bred when big, how he's sweating to support them. Which birthday of the brighter darker man, the Goya of the Globe & Blackfriars, whom— our full earth smiled on him squeezing his old heart with a daughter loose (hostages they áre)—the world's produced, so far, alarms, alarms. Fancy the chill & fatigue four hundred years award a warm one. All we know is ears. My slab lifts up its arms in a solicitude entire, too late. Of brutal revelry gap your mouth to state: Front back & backside go bare! Cats' blackness, booze,blows, grunts, grand groans. Yo-bad yõm i-oowaled bo v'ha'l lail awmer h're gawber! —Now, now, poor Bones.
Added: 25 Mar 2002 | Last Read: 3 Sep 2026 10:29 AM | Viewed: 4375 times
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John Berryman
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