I don't really like it when poets get the nasties.
Bleistein's cigar sets Dresden gently burning;
Gjertrud's No-No and her Clumsies bring
the fall of Cambodian leaves in early Spring.
You'll say I'm blaming clots on angioplasties,
but loathing runs in all ways all at once:
because one thing is hunted, one thing hunts.