Every October I start to get upset.
The factories' hundred throats blow smoke to the sky.
The pullets are getting fat
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
MY mammy, says the Doctor,
Died because something shocked her,
My poor mamma.