My hunger to live lies thin,
Wearing with every damp day, I wake up to-
With every tick of those hands,
I keenly observe; faintly detest.
What perishes isn't a puppet at thou hands,
What remains: IS!
Words I gulp down do not weigh.
Strangled in a knot,
They stud the pendant of Black Humour.
My sublime hunger learns to laugh,
to grin in pain.
Winking at my mime fate,
Drowsily, I proceed:
Proceed in lieu of enlivening the Master.
The Puppet, as I say, Reigns.
Reigns Now, Reigns Hither.
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