Would that I knew my father's true intent
In giving this blue poodle to my care
That it in exercise and true renown
I might not chasten; how's the 'being done'
Beside the possibilities of art,
Or aught of similar or better kind,
To reconcile with "doing having been'?
And further, now, what existential claims
Can any make on owners of large hounds,
As large as may a god, in being small,
Deride for having little strength to bear
Between the consequence and time's reproof.

Good Carybd! Had I thought no whit to see
The cousin of the King in this foul zone
Where good and evil largely interfuse
In growing up, I had not caught this cold
And sickly temper. Carybd, tell me now
My handkerchief so blue and white – hast seen?
'Tis gone, I grieve to say.

Of blue and white?
Methought one such as that on yonder path
I saw.

                Yon fetid cur consumes it quite!

Get hence, vile mongrel, sate your hunger dire
On other fare. But lo, my cloth 'tis not.
'Tis sundry scribblings wove into a plan,
Of what or who I cannot tell. The light
Is fading now. Or no! Perhaps my eyes,
Palsied of late – I know not why – expire.

Forget your silly eyes! Let's see the plan.
Meseems it were the merchandise of those
Who trade in tilth his majesty t'amuse
And banish far the cares of regal love
Unto infernal zones. Is't Polo's hand?
Fie, no, my father writes not thus. Mayhap
Th'abuse of calligraphic skill could tell
Us all that we would know.

                                      Seek we the docks?
You'll lead me there – perhaps to Antipod,
Perhaps to fame; or, failing that, to God.