The Hustling Vanities of Sentient Dust

Elisabeth Ney

The great gyre, oh!

If it’s Bush, this must

be Tuesday. Come glean

with me, do. I’ve many

a row to hoe before I reap

and smiles galore before I leap

into this ice-filled boiling pond

that tickling laps at all our feet.

Up, then, lads and lassies!

Arf! My lonely lyre, oh!

with arabesquely

figured bass doth truly yearn,

oh yeth, doth have strong yen

for your some-day Sunday