Supreme my holdings, greater yet my need,

thoughtless I go out. Dawn. Have I my cig’s,

my flaskie O,

O crystal cock,—my kneel has gone to seed,—

and anybody’s blessing? (Blast the MIGs

for making funble so

my tardy readying.) Yes, utter’ that.

Anybody’s blessing? —Mr Bones,

you makes too much

démand. I might be ’fording you a hat:

it gonna rain. —I knew a one of groans

& greed & spite, of a crutch,

who thought he had, a vile night, been-well-blest.

He see someone run off. Why not Henry,

with his grasp of desire?

—Hear matters hard to manage at de best,

Mr Bones. Tween what we see, what be,

is blinds. Them blinds’ on fire.