Because the pleasure-bird whistles after the hot wires, <br />Shall the blind horse sing sweeter? <br />Convenient bird and beast lie lodged to suffer <br />The supper and knives of a mood. <br />In the sniffed and poured snow on the tip of the tongue of the year <br />That clouts the spittle like bubbles with broken rooms, <br />An enamoured man alone by the twigs of his eyes, two fires, <br />Camped in the drug-white shower of nerves and food, <br />Savours the lick of the times through a deadly wood of hair <br />In a wind that plucked a goose, <br />Nor ever, as the wild tongue breaks its tombs, <br />Rounds to look at the red, wagged root. <br />Because there stands, one story out of the bum city, <br />That frozen wife whose juices drift like a fixed sea <br />Secretly in statuary, <br />Shall I, struck on the hot and rocking street, <br />Not spin to stare at an old year <br />Toppling and burning in the muddle of towers and galleries <br />Like the mauled pictures of boys? <br />The salt person and blasted place <br />I furnish with the meat of a fable; <br />If the dead starve, their stomachs turn to tumble <br />An upright man in the antipodes <br />Or spray-based and rock-chested sea: <br />Over the past table I repeat this present grace.<br /><br />Dylan Thomas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/because-the-pleasure-bird-whistles/
