I lack many things. I am blind.
My skin is uglier than Egil’s bones.
My bones horrify the good James Paget.
I’m led away from stadiums
I forswear my faith and from faith, virtue,
and placed in my hands is the lyre of Nero.
I pluck from my virtue, knowledge,
and strangle the aria of Loge.
I exchange my freedom for wealth.
I transform into the scaly worm
with scales of debts unbalanced.
I am a brooding individual. I am deaf
to all knowledge, I am intemperate.
I twist myself into iron maidens.
I exhibit my snake and how the snake fits
inside these cobbled iron maidens.
I lose my balance, I fall defrocked.
I suffer from chronically cold feet
and dissipated and sprawled
in hoarfroast, I rise to anger,
impatient. I command the reversal
of the tides, old king Cnut in defiance
of the Lord, the Lord of Ragnarök.
I endure headaches, heathen headaches
devoid of brotherly kindness,
full of revulsion for all mankind.
I experience bouts of lethargy.
I either can’t or am unwilling
to raise my arms and plead
to stop wearing this cutis capotain
with the belt buckle like a tressure,
my ornamental fleur-de-lis,
my branded saint on frontispiece.
I’m forced to ask where is my charity,
ask this of my kind brothers,
my false prophets,
and natural brute beasts.
My charity speaks evil of my indignities.