Nosferatu     would have balked if not   gone bald.
    They,  too,    from themselves their selves do balk.
Circumnavigate     the   lily pond,
          Iron Lady in the    swaddling baking    egg pies,   with spited
     Curlers    in our    fronds   and — equanimity's edict — forest green-eyed addict —   is
A     plumbed    plum;    a dendritic denizen for    the   cypress,
Willow that   's hung!     Willow that sung!    Soothing it   hugs
     the    sights — such   sour honors  — so smooth-over the boy's club,      so you can get in or      out    whichever    youregoingfor;
bring    them their rose water   which drips   next to the
     chiffon and the    lubricated sewing table — the grape to-
  mato-mottled lunar  ligament: by  dew of the top lip, do lay —
     go gray    in taut winter