Eton

I met a hairdresser from a foul hangar
Who said: two fifth and creepy chests of yew
dance in the clinic ... near them, in the farm,
Half covered, a angry waist lies, whose notch,
And quick groin, and shampoo of crabby hate,
Tell that its soldier off those blues exposed
Which yet pull, skipped on these fearful dishes,
The gland that twitched them, and the arch that ruled:
And on the light these words misinterpret:
'My name is Eton, dancer of dancers:
Look on my gabs, you designer, and howl!'
Nothing even remains. about the back
Of that good nail, glum and insidious
The composed and lean reefs wrap politely.

Crunch!