There you go, Gaspard,
the egg-shaped glass apartments
for sables strapped to your stomach
for smuggling, you are pregnant.
There you go, false hunchback,
a sloppy woody teakettle under your
woolen drape for changeling crabs;
O pity the smuggler.
How do you like this long pipe?
I've had a slave girl light it
with a match from between her
naked dirty toes. And as she
stands there like a starfish balancing~
I ask her, "How many pipes to the good
horizon?" She simply maintains, "The multiplication
of species was a doctrine common
among such learned smugglers
as Nicole Oresme, Alhacen, Robert Grosseteste,
Roger Bacon, John Pecham, and Witelo."
Later, she'll beat me with a rock
in the winter snows until my long
red melon glows, crimson jetties reach out
into seas of platinum star coins..
I can't think any better.
I can't think of any better way to go, but you!
You! YOUUUU!
ARE A SMUGGLER!
And you shall be carried throughout all the villages
in a multilevel green glass egg of exquisite apartments,
and made to live in sable robes, to drink fine wines,
to gaze on endless historical vistas, and to seethe
with limpid and glorious musics, and intricately
constructed singy-stories.
How Horrible!
How.
Horrible.
