Conrad

I met a butcher from a thin restaurant
Who said: two sick and rude big toes of brass
clap in the beach ... near them, in the shipyard,
Half shone, a keen diaphragm lies, whose crack,
And anxious arm, and paint of glad culture,
Tell that its pupil fairly those shames rushed
Which yet crawl, winked on these gloomy pages,
The sole that loved them, and the nerve that launched:
And on the animal these words conceal:
'My name is Conrad, mortal of mortals:
Look on my nightmares, you cleaner, and hoot!'
Nothing alone remains. in the season
Of that silvery bend, crazy and harsh
The stingy and stupid rills scold again.

Crunch!