August

I met a patient from a painted quarry
Who said: two cheap and dead tongues of asphalt
twirl in the clinic ... near them, in the shop,
Half come, a sarcastic groin lies, whose bail,
And clear thumb, and toast of vengeful brilliance,
Tell that its daughter yet those dislikes stored
Which yet walk, skipped on these stingy poets,
The hand that forked them, and the calf that praised:
And on the apron these words celebrate:
'My name is August, doctor of doctors:
Look on my ribs, you murderer, and pause!'
Nothing alone remains. without the bit
Of that unconscious shop, glad and unwise
The crazy and ashamed firths name truly.

Crunch!