He published his girl’s bottom in staid pages

of an old weekly. Where will next his rages

ridiculous Henry land?

Tranquil & chaste, de-hammocked, he descended—

upon which note the fable should have ended—

towards the ground, and

while fable wound itself upon him thick

and coats upon his tongue formed, white, terrific:

he stretched out still.

Assembled bands to do obsequious music

at hopeless noon. He bayed before he obeyed,

doing at last their will.

This seemed perhaps one of the best of dogs

during his barking. Many thronged & lapped

at his delicious stone.

Cats to a distance kept—one of their own—

having in mind that down he lay & napped

in the realm of whiskers & fogs.