Raindays, sleeted,
cemetery full of earth baths.
Worms have et us up.

If tha can’t see a hole in a ladder,
 thas bound for t’eternity box.
I dint see hole.

Thas nowt like a decent cup
 of scandal water to set thee right.
An this heavenspit’s mild
as hell on a gavaunt.

I were well kitted out,
 carrioncase threads,
 tailored fleshbag,
 fine leather trotter boxes.

Now, fully dressed in worm cases,
 in this cold bath of earth,
eternity box now mulch,
 I wish to rise up this dark ladder
 to walk again in a spit of light.

To have an athanasian wenches accommodate
my beard-jammer in their aphrodisiacal
tennis courts, their best part.

To see the devil,
sup sumgullion, rotgut,
old man’s milk, take a mother’s
blessing, and lush it up.

 Afore all this I munt jigsaw together
yon scattered blood splash
and sinew game of worm cases,
plant grub and squirrel meat.

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