Some say your greatest enemy is yourself
That lesser you inside, that little puppet, that elf
Strings to your fingers, strings to your toes
One to your spine and one to your nose
   You can tumble and crash and he’ll be unbroke
Witty and gritty, as elusive as smoke
Post tumble’s when he’s most likely to speak
His strings are strung tightest, whenever you’re weak
   Not to wait then, until you are broken
Give him the stage and he’ll have already spoken
He feeds best on virtue, this gritty little elf
So feed him his share, as you would your belly’s self
   Virtues is the sort, that means then not vices
His tastes may seem bland so be weary of spices
Heed not this advice, and we’ve a puppet…
Left to his own devices
   Not worth getting clever, don’t saw at those strings
You’ll soon find out they’re sinewy things
Introduce yourselves; it could help if you’ve met
The you inside you,
                                  that mischievous marionette

Here we’re marching, four by four,
Up the clumsy trail of sin.
The nectar curse the forest floor
And grease the second skin.

Of seven partners clasped in chic,
The reek of vine take one.
Of six not bought to kegged defeat
Five friends can’t my heart drum.

And yet remains a digit still
Her tumbled breath like wort.
She’ll stand above, as I lie killed
From our mundane cool cavorts.

Her muse in greetings now and then
Sustain a dreadful hope,
That I could move or burn or blend
Or break the glass unbroke

That I could burrow softer thought
And spilt grain at her breast.
That I could buy what can’t b-bought
Dirty, bled, unblessed.

And I think of you my rose-hewed ghost
With a leapt up gentle craze.
T’ward all good health in wished for toasts
For you I’d drink to plague.