Oxen of the Sun 417
with a drunken gun
this madness stands gone along the
beautiful night
like art it fires tramps and bishops
savvy cabbies and Irish bibles
shades, tramplers of meaning
mounted one on the other
sweetsweet bonnyclabber, fiddler
enemy of morning
business of yours
kicking ministers and
watching the clock
bleeding on counters
and passing away on prairies
reviving to the thunder of numbers
nearing the last world
sleeping in our boots
advancing on obligation, awful time
we spend our days designing all this madness.
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