Pygmalion in a checkered shirt

When I was eighteen
I was my own Henry Higgins:
what roughness there
can evaporate in the letters:
smoke, smoke! You are
only trash a few years more,
I said, and can well mar
your body in another age:
absorb the libraries
as best you can and, sage
that you are, all the boys
disordered as you will read
your tampered biography,
one day, taking heed—

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~ by Jeremy on June 26, 2013.

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