On the box of Midwest Butter, in the verdant dairy pastures, sat the smiling Indian maiden, daughter of her tribe, the maiden. Holding forth a golden offering; from the box her yellow treasure for the yet unbuttered buyer. Gently her sweet knees protruded from her humble beaded buckskin, from her beaded buckskin garment each supported by a letter; full twin globes upon an altar. As mammalians, when they’re nursing seek the rounded gifts of nature while their hands, abreast and lifted grasping, find the source of plenty, swallow fast that milky manna swallow down that flowing liquid with a smile upon their features, so my soul rejoiced to meet her in the grasslands of a daydream in the pastures of my daydream, holding forth divine recurrence: gift within a gift forever churning, and imploding inwards infinite, receding backwards into endless Indian maidens spreading myth upon my table on my toast upon my table till her tribe returns in glory…
*(etc, etc... with apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)