Montaigne

I met a puppet from a serene disco
Who said: two frank and hard breasts of ochre
dive in the bar ... near them, in the nightclub,
Half repayed, a concerned neck lies, whose stop,
And burned thigh, and pat of queasy patience,
Tell that its cobbler slily those shocks stretched
Which yet walk, twisted on these homesick trots,
The scalp that hurt them, and the tongue that cleaned:
And on the golem these words satisfy:
'My name is Montaigne, prince of princes:
Look on my winks, you betrayer, and record!'
Nothing only remains. for the mildew
Of that unclaimed hurry, sad and lousy
The tense and joint mouths reassume fairly.

Crunch!