By Richard Mather
I
There is (if you care to know), a flower of folly growing
On my brain, on the surface of the matter’s deep. Fit for the
Fire, its fate is allotted. To be plucked - no - uprooted,
And then chucked on the heap. But won’t it hurt? Well, yes, it will, but
(And since you must inquire), there is more than one kind of pain.
So with steady hand, and clutching his trephine, the doctor will
Incise, excise, cut, and splice, and rid me of this fleur du mal.
And if I recover, and you find me bored, a bit dull, please
Bear in mind that a hole in the head is far better than a
Bewildered brain where bad thoughts grow like weeds in a well-kept bed.
Besides, the gap it leaves will be a sign, a radical sign,
Marking where a root has been extracted. My name? It is Das,
Lubbert Das and yes my two eyes are filled with stinging tears.
II
Is our friend
The monk here to invoke
The saints or hear
Complaints?
My name is Lubbert Das
And he is mad.
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