CHICAGO MAY
PART I—ROME
Drceaner
I
‘Tus is my hour of peace; the great sow snores,
Blowing out spittle through her blubber lips,
‘Champagne and lust still oozing from the pores.
Of her fat flanks; then, let my hate eclipse
All other lamps of my pale soul, and flare—
A curst star sparking in the strangled air!
Her shapeless limbs are sticky with stale sweat;
Yet, she would wake if I withdrew, belch hard
The ferments of the fodder, turn, and fret
This inch that is the ruins of a yard.
Is there no sparrow, ram, ass, bull can stay
The “ love"—dear Jesus |—of Chicago May?
u
Like salt pools in a marsh her skin is, soiled
With labours and abortions, stained and red
With her low birth and her high feeding, spoiled
With moles and wens, and fat, fat, fat. To Z