I wonder, to look on some commonplace Crass carcase in calm cow-hide,What on earth, if one could see through the case, The works are doing inside!
Is he, as were some from his years (fifteen) A fuming furnace fire,A darkness, and a flickering sheen, A simmering sad desire?
And scorns and sorrows and loves and pains Are playing roulette within,And now it is Gabriel getting the gains, And now 'tis Gehenna and sin?
And will he be gutted and taken to bits With pincers some day and cleaned,And a bright new spring be put into the thing As fresh as the day he was weaned?
Or shall he not rather gently detach, And with easy careless pitchMake room (and be damned) for a new one to match, Chucked into the nearest ditch?
