...In the rear-view mirror, the world of lost chances are sepia/ Like the bullrush, they gather rusts and smuts in suety rhynes/ O God! here she comes, ready to out these candles/ Better a spine so roughly hewn on red-hot sandstone, than to drown out there on the bucking fleece - where every fathom is a ladder to the crabs...O forgive me! mercy! - she took the water from the coals, threw the bucket and poached these eyes in their sockets: "No more you strut with the other cockrels at dawn. For in the headlights, there is a pile of rubble, waiting for me to put you to bed with a pickaxe and a shovel!" A harbour for meat flies... I was dead!