Shelley’s eye We are told, soars In a fine frenzy Not always, we know, for sure. Grand old Baudelaire shot up Hypocritical reader, my similar, my brother Good old Eliot went gaga. My death wish is not mine, I tell you, The bard comes up in a state of mind Sometimes cogent, sometimes vociferous: Take this, I say, or leave it To cleanse yourself.
