Oh, insolent body! An organ, a glitch:
blood’s sinuous music, an old folk art
delivering sweetness like a side bitch.
An unction that no other could impart,
But wisdom rides ye wary of thirst traps!
Ye may submit to urgency below
And reap wounds unhealed by salve or wrap.
Ay, sugar-blinded, ye will lug in tow
a thorough arsenal of drink and pain.
Crease thy page in the book of dignity
though, in troth, thy body may abstain—
its last nerves fading like ancient filigree.
Prithee, take the remedy sent from dog above
And remember, weary pilgrim, there ys always more to love.