Tell it to the forest fire, tell it to the moon,

mention it in general to the moon

on the way down,

he’s about to have his lady, permanent;

and this is the worst of all came ever sent

writhing Henry’s way.

Ha ha, fifth column, quisling, genocide,

he held his hands & laught from side to side

a loverly time.

The berries & the rods left him alone less.

Thro’ a race of water once I went: happiness.

I’ll walk into the sky.

There the great flare & stench, O flying creatures,

surely will dim-dim? Bars will be closed.

No girl will again

conceive above your throes. A fine thunder peals

will with its friends and soon, from agony

put the fire out.