They luxuriate in the salts of old sins, wombs
of ressentiment that fester and open wide
and give late birth to new immaculated gooms --
red horned blokes saturated with Satanic pride,
salubrious afterbirth cowls hide eyes, c*nt monks,
products of Eve's teased out doings in Eden
with lugubrious Captain Exile and his punks
singing circle-jerkle mal mot hoser Lieden.
Old mad queens soaking in their seething j'accusis
waiting for johnny-come-lately to bum along --
some crazed scribe, blue sacks full of tangos, watusis --
Mad demoiselles who donkey pump the potent bong.
This is some evil-sounding language but yet true;
a sober misogynist's nightmare through and through.
