David Francis
Mr. Whig’s Phrenology
Luck would have it you’ll stick to birch trees like a gum-resin.
You’ll lose nerve, have the longing of lotus and halo,
Burrowing in a furred nuthatch.
Your fraternity will take on cholera and the order of the yoke
Fastened about your neck,
Wheeling locomotive, uncontrollably ordinary.
