Cowley

I met a peasant from a lordly dairy
Who said: two smug and boring chins of oil
march in the shop ... near them, in the fairground,
Half wielded, a upset vein lies, whose fear,
And real pharynx, and float of earnest luck,
Tell that its trustee yet those awes obscured
Which yet twirl, blinked on these vivacious soles,
The sole that doed them, and the hip that sat:
And on the wanderer these words transform:
'My name is Cowley, expert of experts:
Look on my corn-fields, you nurse, and compete!'
Nothing only remains. beneath the rip
Of that unclaimed sprout, weary and corrupt
The jaded and smug woods reach frightfully.

Crunch!