Coming back on a bus from Boston,
I stopped at your door.
I left my eyes in your mailbox and my teethe in your flower pots,
For they've no use anymore.
Shrubs made not their fragrant beds on my return,
But they a dish of chilies and vittles made,
For sons to wear at Masquerade
While the Piper was paid.
Upon goat stomachs they carried me out
From whence an unholy
Regurgitated me out
Since I aggravated the sprout and was cast back
Into the fold of old salt and grass
Where stone overcomes it.