the phlebotomist drew my blood
i flew into the Lake District
the iron drained and out it came
universal donor thick

no test for anemia
attesting only to that needed
i sought the world of Wordsworth
but swirled landscapes fleeted

"let a sleeping dog lie"
came a wry voice from the bogs
through the peat there rose a spread
a sheet of green, a host of frogs

not the golden daffodils
old and ancient beings
the sort that torment day and night
relenting at your freeing

aghast i drew my hatchet
banged, hacked and made a racket
took the legs of one and each
left the dregs and had a feast

i wandered there as a cloud
donned my pack and burned the shroud
the shroud that was prepared for me
rested ash, bare of me