I should, I would, if I could,
be enclosed again, in that dank bag
which veils the mind in slow stumbling incess
Congealing all fleet thought,
to hobbled hobbie horses,
reducing them to gelatinous glue.
Stuck in place.
Don't I know, that men, prefer, a pretty face,
a compliant lay that opens like an oiled door,
in and out, and then as before,
the wander takes them, off to find their guns,
and other toys, they had in mind.
To be brilliant and to shine,
one should be just a hag.
But then the other way is to be tossed aside,
and left soiled, like silken rag.
I ought, I fought, I sought,
to sparkle in the night,
to throw off glistening inner light,
but better glamor which is a spell,
on which the grinding of time will tell.
Stupid is, as stupid is done,
open to anything, and anyone.