What is it that roars in the distance,
O, mankind who's soul shall be made to weep
It is the bellow of The Lion
As he prowls upon his keep.

The Lion is the comupance of your sins, my boy
His glare the road to perdition
His teeth the the small brush
with which you clean the floors
of the stalls of Hell.

Janitor has one eye and
Railroad cap.
He knows the ropes
He has been long employed

Spitoon laying sideways
Shows the slow tenure.

Rotted tooth teaches wisdom
No comely comfort in
Convalecent Cell of Hell

Men in fedoras
The thought that
There are neons
and noir outside
And The Ghost of Lust

But none produces the tentacle tingle
My geriatric genitals swoon no more
at Turn of the Century Erotica
In that is cheap Irony.

Eeerie green light from gacious lamp
Shows spirits in the curtains
In the pictures
on the tin-types of the ancestors

"It is always about ten in the morning here, Witty"
"That is a nice time to be"
"But your favorite time was eleven thirty, was it not?
and also April and all her tulips and fertile smell?"
"Yea"
"It's March.."
"****..."
Did not even get capitalized because the soul is destroyed.
Beleagured.
Doomed (******).

At ringend on june sixteenth nineteen hundred and four
                                                                     Molly opens her door
and Literate Leopold plonks his kosher black pudding into her hand
                                                                                        Isn't it grand
                                                                 to be remembered this way?
Walking the streets and ******* the teats of the sow that eats its children
Searching for meat on O'Connel streeet that has the tang of scented *****
The well known literate degenerates
long to have  their hot-dogs stroked by baaaaaaaaaarnacles
whilst sellin' knick-nack Paddywackery of dear old ***** dumpling
                     How do they walk with her sausages
                                  and inner organs  of beasts and fowls?
their shanks ****** dry of whuskey on Denny's big breakfast show
                Well **** your ****! With a flame-grilled
                                                                       samuel
                                                                                 becket burger
                                                                             and a side order
                                                                       of oscar wilde fries

"warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh. Flesh yeilded amid rumpled clothes.
Whites of eyes swooning up. His nostrils arched themselves for prey. Melting breast ointments.
Armpits oniony sweat .
Fishgluey slime.
Feel!
Press!
Crushed!
Sulphur dung of lions
Young!  Young!

                 In the petri-
                               Pish
                               Pish
                               Pish
                               Dish
spitoon culture
           the illiteraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaati
                                      hold a party
                  
                "I'm a tiny tiny thing
                     Ever flying in the spring
                       Round and round a ringaring
                                                  Long ago I was king
                                        Now I do this kind of thing
                                     On the wing, onnnnnnnn the wing!"
                                                    Bing!

Professor Latelate Lateshow Late review
Was talking to ME……..        about yew
What do yew think of that aesthetic crew?
                                  The opal hush poets?
                                   The master mystiks?
The wanz thit
       *** to me
          in the sma' oors
               o the mournin'
                    tae ask aboot
                       plains o consciousness?

They're all Barbers, says he, from the Black Country that would hang their own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses!

In Dublin's fine city
Where the wine bars are pretty
You can't find an ashtray
You must smoke alone.

                                                                                  Isn't it grand
                                                               To be remembered this way
Walking the streets and ******* the teats of the sow that eats its children?