Every October I start to get upset.
The factories' hundred throats blow smoke to the sky.
The pullets are getting fat
MY mammy, says the Doctor,
Died because something shocked her,
My poor mamma.
BLASÉ do I say! Have done!
Forward, and tear these roots that glue like night,
Through mamma, love of albumen, to the light,
I MAY be dead tomorrow, uncaressed.
My lips have never touched a woman's, none
Has given me in a look her soul, not one