THE LAST OF THE BIG CIGARS
There is a worm in my brain
Looking for another worm
And for cups of hot chocolate
On a cold Saturday night.The young mistress of the hacienda
Has sent me a postcard from the moon
With promises of gleaming colours
And sweetened ancestral melodies.Speak to me now, O Worm!
Turn from Thy futile search
And devour the anger and fear
Which my fingers bruise
As if they were over-ripe peaches!- St. Clair Carr