Henry of Donnybrook bred like a pig,

bred when he was brittle, bred when big,

how he’s sweating to support them.

Which birthday of the brighter darker man,

the Goya of the Globe & Blackfriars, whom—

our full earth smiled on him

squeezing his old heart with a daughter loose

(hostages they áre)—the world’s produced,

so far, alarms, alarms.

Fancy the chill & fatigue four hundred years

award a warm one. All we know is ears.

My slab lifts up its arms

in a solicitude entire, too late.

Of brutal revelry gap your mouth to state:

Front back & backside go bare!

Cats’ blackness, booze, blows, grunts, grand groans.

Yo-bad yōm i-oowaled bo v’ha’l lail awmer h’re gawber!

—Now, now, poor Bones.