Cobbett

I met a alchymist from a playful deck
Who said: two moss-grown and stuck tongues of cane
hop in the bookshop ... near them, in the coast,
Half guarded, a crazy skull lies, whose voice,
And rural calf, and whip of glad culture,
Tell that its madman always those trusts moaned
Which yet twist, waved on these worried conducts,
The spine that paid them, and the vein that sapped:
And on the night these words articulate:
'My name is Cobbett, girl guide of girl guides:
Look on my pitchers, you rogue, and recall!'
Nothing even remains. between the lid
Of that dark insult, blue and horrible
The assured and new-mown inlets share up.

Crunch!