Stop him, stop that man
Running through the streets,
Even moving under them––
The man with the yellow bow tie!
In the city the policemen are playing hopscotch,
Since they’ve already thrown bumpy cinnamon waffles
Today beneath all the citizens’ illicit sitting spots.
The cats are baking in the kitchen,
And the children are taking in naps,
While onerous nylon pants run gaily by this spot.
Stop him, he laid some hands on my cello!
To be precise I am a blue asparagus…
Technically speaking, a blue and green asparagus.
There may be those among you unaware of this,
But do not despair of it:
It is fair to say that in the arrogant era of today,
Paranoid with partiality, we make little effort
For all our show to accommodate for the unknown needs
Of a growing-grey asparagus—
A growing-grey though blue and green asparagus, that is,
With a passion for horse-shoe playing.
The splendour of the world in rags
Resplendent darkness hides. And light
I see the mystery of heaven
That human flesh decays in humble
Waste. A sacred sacrilege
To muck and filth, it burns
With thunder, resounds with fire,
And rages all the more with silent
Wind. Did he lay the foundation
Of earth, a giving grave of life?