I beg to be an institution.
I have heart not, for I dissected
that organ in all of its grammar.
What claim have I to toiling fame
but what I purchase in the urn?
A madhouse might learn me, I pray,
though so little is a language
that it might wake me to the day
I toil, instead, in the workhouse
as the foibles of my youth fade
inside or alongside my supple brain.
Abide not anxieties of barter or buy
for all the world worships is strange.