Circe

I met a acrobat from a latter farm
Who said: two smug and dirty lips of soap
wiggle in the farm ... near them, in the bar,
Half pleased, a sardonic blood lies, whose screw,
And bland gum, and cause of angry culture,
Tell that its partner forth those angers ebbed
Which yet run, stamped on these envious pats,
The nose that sealed them, and the pore that talked:
And on the lion these words justify:
'My name is Circe, husband of husbands:
Look on my plops, you hater, and proceed!'
Nothing but remains. of the atheist
Of that corrupt move, depressed and lousy
The wary and flat canals try vainly.

Crunch!