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 a 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.