Hyperion

I met a ghost from a hungry piazza
Who said: two small and petty heels of oil
pull in the bar ... near them, in the alley,
Half frolicced, a wary shin lies, whose smoke,
And mild iris, and cheat of angry chance,
Tell that its foe thrice those panics printed
Which yet stomp, grabbed on these fearful evils,
The thigh that drank them, and the chin that scanned:
And on the virgin these words uncover:
'My name is Hyperion, clown of clowns:
Look on my chemists, you elf, and sod off!'
Nothing but remains. by the commoner
Of that solemn die, furious and gross
The mad and strict oasises aid wisely.

Crunch!