Handsome Jim has drawings,
Of feathered garments on his wall,
Molly curls up in the fecundity,
Of her limitless frugality,
And I spit bile upon the floor.
On a road, there converged a crowd,
Each unit of this bilious cloud,
Crept with infinitesimal social grace,
Spinning machines that draw my face,
Whirring hickerydoos around in the air,
The easy miscontruances in the backward fair.
In the middle of the road,
Near the sea,
Where an evil wind blows.