The Flesh is puppet to the Soul

who pulls th'strings
& haplessly
the little poet sings

who would rather sit down
beneath th'trees
& trace the meaningless lines
of th'breeze

But, to the bird its Song
is no melodic Lay
it preaches as it goes along
from play to play

It may A Dark Curse be
or A Great Dare,

an Oath of Singularity
darning the air--

but O the Flesh attends
the Soul's demands
and dances to the tunes
that She commands

Or, a courageous gnat
finding himself abandoned
evicted & disowned

upon an unfamiliar mat
began to build
a small establishment

which he stocked up & filled
with Possessive Contentment

And, finding a courageous gnat
where he placidly sat

I took him off th'place
& put him on the cold, cold floor

--He took off for the door

& just before
he went his way
with sour face
he turned to me as if to say
--I'm not returning any more!

(Alas! such creatures always say
that same old thing today

and then tomorrow
finds them fencing up your toe)

Or, Flesh repairs each broken yarn
and mends The Warps unseen

and Soul quite quickly cuts them off
after Th'Farce hath been.