Grizzled-brown sound of tuba walking,
            In the way of circles you wobble step, inverse,
                        As does a broken waltz, bearly graceful.

You sniff your way a crush alpine meadows
            And making sense for you are lowly berries,
                        Rude as any intruder might be in the foothills

Of the Gods.  'More wine for the great Polyphemus,'
            Say the drunk brambles, brighty doomed sailors
                        All a wash by behemothing jaws which hang

Them over.  Yet Ursa, if in minor you must play
            By the cosmos' stilted view, great major, it is they
                        Who glare more distant, as if you really cared.