says,
I can roar and blink on four slow feet. The scared Mädchen
in the eye can madden like the tooth-sore and gnawed paw.
My tufa brow!
But I long for quince, vulval, grown from the seed .
I scent you, tho, and am sad for a time,lamentably til I'm shrill and
not a single clearing escapes, & not a single whelp
It's pulpous for
a time til the calm of the head that's been mercifully gnawed and
chawed, can rest purplish now Shuttered or thrashing, cleaving, you
are tired, too, thin beyond belief
and toss me chickens, snatched in mid-air, for relief
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