Plop, plop. The lobster toppled in the pot,

fulfilling, dislike man, his destiny,

glowing fire-red,

succulent, and on the whole becoming what

man wants. I crack my final claw singly,

wind up the grave, & to bed.

—Sound good, Mr Bones. I wish I had me some.

(I spose you got a lessen up your slave.)

—O no no no.

Sole I remember; where no lobster swine,—

pots hot or cold is none. With you I grieve

lightly, and I have no lesson.

Bodies are relishy, they say. Here’s mine,

was. What ever happened to Political Economy,

leaving me here?

Is a rare—in my opinion—responsibility.

The military establishments perpetuate themselves forever.

Have a bite, for a sign.