Was conscience, which we all possess,
Ever meant to be such a thug?
Augustine needed God much less
Than he needed a proper hug.
You can kill the Girl. You can kiss the King.
Torrential rain excuses everything.
I had come to treat my mind
With the shrill caprice
You might heap upon an ill
Frigidaire you’d yearned to kill--
After settling your will
To abort the lease.
Why do you insist that I should be resigned
To the prospect that the bounty once defined
“Literary Greatness” (when the Muses pick,
Favor, elevate) is like the Cáthólíc
Afterlife, or like Lombroso on the Mind?