There aren't so many in the carafe
I have a fly in my nose
there are two in the calash
Turn turn the wheel
to hoist the beggars atop the chimneys
The women will watch it
The children will kill it
Turn turn the wheel
to carve up the Saint-Cyrians
their flesh will make bait for Newfoundland's fish
and it'll be an unlucky year
I shook an idiot's hand
and a forget-me-not grew in my hand
and that's why it's as hot as the inside of a gas pipe
that swallows pass into but never emerge from
for fear of being turned into incandescent burners
Whether the lines on the floor zigzag drunk
or whether the ladders collapse under those that brave them
the noise from the street will clunk like a convict's sack
and desolate passersby will clap their hands over their ears
and their pregnant wives' hysterics
will throw the hotel rooms' tables off balance