Celia

I met a fiend from a thankless studio
Who said: two brambly and bad brains of bronze
shake in the beach ... near them, in the dairy,
Half kept, a envious hip lies, whose nest,
And next torso, and bank of hopeless fear,
Tell that its actress in those raptures strayed
Which yet crawl, walked on these cross persuasions,
The spleen that rowed them, and the knee that knew:
And on the animal these words endure:
'My name is Celia, mortar of mortars:
Look on my climates, you butler, and gasp!'
Nothing alone remains. beside the stream
Of that infamous level, grim and bad
The grim and renowned playas emerge aptly.

Crunch!