| Yea, for this love of mine |
| I have given all I had; |
| For she was passing fair, |
| And I was passing mad. |
| I, who dishevelled ways forsook |
| To hold the poet's grammar-book, |
| Bringing to tavern and to brothel |
| The mind of witty Aristotle, [...] |
| For I detect without surprise |
| That shadowy beauty in her eyes, |
| The 'dare not' of sweet maidenhood |
| That answers my corruptive 'would'. |
| When publicly we meet |
| She never seems to think of it; |
| At night when close in bed she lies |
| And feels my hands between her thighs |
| My little love in light attire |
| Knows the soft flame that is desire. |
| Rouen is the rainiesy place getting |
| Inside all impermeables, wetting |
| Damped marrow in drenched bones |
49, p 135
| E. P. is found of an extra inch |
| Whenever the 'ell it's found |
| But wasn't J. J. the son of a binch |
| To send him an extra pound? |
60.
62.
63.
65. p 145
| There's a genial young poetriarch Euge |
| Who hollers with heartiness huge: |
| Let sick souls sob for solace |
| So the jeunes joy with Jolas! |
| Book your berths! Après mot, le déluge. |
A long black piano: coffin of music.