MAD AS A HATTER
It goes like that in Doomacile;
where one hundred frog-posts live
in a perfect abode of Nature, the
domicile of all endings. We finish
the chores and go right to table.
I went to sleep last night reading
Ashbery. Sometimes that creepy
baby just makes no sense. He leadeth
me to rest in green pastures?
Maketh me lie down in green
meadows? Oh man, I forget already.
Before too long, that fat old moon
will give me more answers. I am
a werewolf in the heart of the night.