Father, fail to spark the night of light,
Exalt the ring-fenced baying hounds,
Ingest your salted acrid id
Lest swill and phlegm
Away in haste
Fermented foaming spittle
To soak and feed the dormant,
The wayside scamp, the little
Adornment in your arms.

Father, cast an assiduous gulf
To sprawl between the vacant stares
And glibly play the raconteur
To treat as dust
That thickly plies
The horror of the dawning,
Fender to the holy font,
The baptism, a mourning
Ache with chime and rattle.