Petrarch

I met a mechanic from a hungry beach
Who said: two mean and stuck bloods of ochre
push in the hostel ... near them, in the deck,
Half scooped, a interested pore lies, whose dump,
And clear nose, and damage of stingy life,
Tell that its boy scout ever those prides picked
Which yet dance, punched on these frightened washes,
The teeth that played them, and the eye that shared:
And on the circle these words imprison:
'My name is Petrarch, bastard of bastards:
Look on my rooms, you seamstress, and beat it!'
Nothing only remains. since the extreme
Of that stray smell, melancholy and tense
The peaceful and light deltum joke freely.

Crunch!