SONNET FOUND IN A DESERTED MAD HOUSE

An anonymous poem

H that my soul a marrow-bone might seize!

For the old egg of my desire is broken,

Spilled is the pearly white and spilled the yolk, and

As the mild melancholy contents grease

My path the shorn lamb baas like bumblebees.

Time's trashy purse is as a taken token

Or like a thrilling recitation, spoken

By mournful mouths filled full of mirth and cheese.

 

And yet, why should I clasp the earthful urn?

Or find the frittered fig that felt the fast?

Or choose to chase the cheese around the churn?

Or swallow any pill from out the past?

Ah, no Love, not while your hot kisses burn

Like a potato riding on the blast.

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