Plop, plop. The lobster toppled in the pot, <br />fulfilling, dislike man, his destiny, <br />glowing fire-red, <br />succulent, and on the whole becoming what <br />man wants. I crack my final claw singly, <br />wind up the grave, & to bed. <br /> <br />—Sound good, Mr Bones. I wish I had me some. <br />(I spose you got a lessen up your slave.) <br />—O no no no. <br />Sole I remember; where no lobster swine,— <br />pots hot or cold is none. With you I grieve <br />lightly, and I have no lesson. <br /> <br />Bodies are relishy, they say. Here's mine, <br />was. What ever happened to Political Economy, <br />leaving me here? <br />Is a rare—in my opinion—responsibility. <br />The military establishments perpetuate themselves forever. <br />Have a bite, for a sign.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-84-op-posth-no-7/
