Trashcan Soul

A jerk, an earnest tug, it should suffice

To extirpate the agonizing limb;

To hoist away, distend the tuber, trice;

To scrape the feckless organ to waste bin.


For sterile is its use, and gone, its worth,

Its weeping and bemoaning, vanity,

That cries for absent repast and false girth

And, never pregnant, scampers, no esprit.


Like fussy child repining, be the lark,

The ardor of the branch it loves to mime,

The hexed throb, analogy. An arc

of circuit that does ending never find.


A parody unsullied thus, allure–

Were not my soul entrenched with its manure!

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