That bolus that stuck ringed in my breath-pipe that misery that muck scattered me like tripe on a nude day spent lying in the solarium and nothing to pay except the die-hard solatium that the invertebrate needs and love too soon hopes spent wasting in distant meads twisted in tiring ropes again and again the trumpet sounds to herald the bane of white skulls in mounds a caveat, a caveat; a union, a fusion too soon, to part all in a hopeless illusion But they will again come cantering in in vain, in vain nor heed my mind’s din meanwhile, in my breath-pipe I find irretrievably stuck scattering me like tripe love, that muck