What a thrill ---- My thumb instead of an onion. The top quite gone Except for a sort of hinge
Of skin, A flap like a hat, Dead white. Then that red plush.
Little pilgrim, The Indian's axed your scalp. Your turkey wattle Carpet rolls
Straight from the heart. I step on it, Clutching my bottle Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is. Out of a gap A million soldiers run, Redcoats, every one.
Whose side are they one? O my Homunculus, I am ill. I have taken a pill to ****
The thin Papery feeling. Saboteur, Kamikaze man ----
The stain on your Gauze Ku Klux **** Babushka Darkens and tarnishes and when The balled Pulp of your heart Confronts its small Mill of silence
How you jump ---- Trepanned veteran, ***** girl, Thumb stump.
