Now fair Rangoon's unholy fate doth weigh
Like feathers on my brain – O, that she still
Should dwell among us, we who know no ill
All save that villain – nameless must he go.

No, sir, name him not, no fame ascribe
To that foul squire whose venomous desire
Not mighty Phoebus' strivings could contest;
That wight of black desires, got of a crab,

Nay, of a wagstaff, stacking sin on sin
The tortures of machine and metal soul
I'm off to Trebizond, where I was born.
O, Tembalo, this ort I shun!

                           But hold?

I am the very spirit of Rangoon,
On whose unholy fate you ponder long,
And linger longer on the lust of liars
Who claim to be who no-one knows they are –
Just as am I!

                What a scroobious chap!
Than I more odd by far, I deftly deem
I'll crenelate my tonsure, singe my nape,
Jump out and navigate this naval ark!
We bus apace, but, oddly, stop we now!

I saw not, Antipod, wherewith you spoke.

This surprises me, Putresco, not
For often, when in Selene's dark hours
Amid fair Phoebus' orgies 'neath the ground,
I have a second self espied; and thus
Doth he betimes converse, or so it seems,
With this my amphora, my coat, my staff,
And yet in winter days with these my gloves,
Or else a bobble-cap abune my pate
I understand it not. To discourse with objects
Widely held to know no mote of sense
Or at least to converse seldom with us men
To me doth seem a travesty of reason
(Or reason as our reason apprehendeth),
Enigma to cold Logic's shifty gaze
Which variously doth play i'th'minds of men
Or minor key or major, or in modes
Of charm quite subterranean or martial
The worms to serenade, which at our breasts
The trumpeters of time my soul attests!

Aye!