The Walrus

Walrus Walrus, rushing fast,
In the chasms of the sky;
What compelling brain or spine,
Could address thy soulful freedom?
In what hostile space or skies
rushed the spirit of thine neck?
with what weight dare he conduct?
What the hand, dare throw the spirit?
And what tendon, & what power,
Could twist the sinews of thy face?
And when thy face began to smile,
What fair hand? & what fair sacrum?
What the hammer? what the forge,
In what smithy was thy bone?
What the anvil? what fair hope,
Dare its hostile anger act!
When the skies tore down their cloaks
And blessed men with their strokes:
Did he laugh his wish to see?
Did he who made the worm make thee?
Walrus Walrus, rushing fast,
In the chasms of the sky;
What compelling brain or spine,
Could address thy soulful freedom?

Crunch!