He’s slinging and winding-

Breaking and grinding.

A body twists in its metal cocoon.

 

Slick and rubbery,

stripped and blubbery,

its stench pervades the room.

 

Now, he’s blown brittle gasket

In his vexed bread-basket

From building this brown-stone tomb.

 

He did what he coulda

If not what he shoulda

Too much, too fast, too soon.