Who, who,
gimp boot,
binds my wrists with a limp root.
The black foot,
a loose tooth,
the grave posseses a black suit.
Under the soil is some savage brute:
a god, god, God.
A house, a stitch,
nothing new.
I have built a mausoleum or two
just big enough to own all of you.
Not so, not so,
one pinch, one row,
the ashes I've dispatched in one blow;

the secrets even the bones can't know.
I've traced a place for his home to go,
for his milk to sour, his milk to sour,
from which he will rise
like I, I, I have.
These legs connected, stand again,
yes, I have learned how to mend
skin to skin, skin to skin,
hydrogen to hydrogen,
hearts to mouths, led to feet,
learned how to examine meat
what is always sweet.
I issue from out of these Sabbath laws,
my flowers spin, my teeth, my claws,
I wake up red in your jaws.

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Ultio, in the year 604 AD.