This hand crabbed from the key dulled letter
Sits, paleolithic, on the obsolete absolute page
Its grip reduced to a spastic C
Illustrating some text on graphology
Section graphomania, dangers of. Notebooks
Hanself and gretel back to the storied youth
And up to the man long in the tooth
If teeth there are so wrought by seasons
Of unheeded sugar, the slave produce stored
In poisoned plenty – is it not in this plenty I lived?
And how my happiness grieved
To see its imperial thunder mocked and tin
Reduced to a mere tinkle in the heart.
But what of it, weeper? Is it proved
That the grave’s your major stockholder at fifty?
As though out of stiff fingers no nifty
Thought could throw off smothering bone
And you have to face alone, alone.