Fierce-proud crow-piper am I
On Prospero’s good-wind, miller days,
Born of winter raven-burn,
Murder’s elegant professor,
Confessor to fictions.
But soak-pinioned this morning;
Strangled by long-rain pains,
Deserted by my elsewhere-whoring muse,
Cowed, half blind and cowardly,
I am hangover-hobo hobbled in drab
Hedgerow’s glory-naked frame-of-crown:
Mobbed by doubt and bastard clouds.