I have whetted my brain until it is like a Damascus blade,
So keen that it nicks off the floating fringes of pa**ers-by,
So sharp that the air would turn its edge
Were it to be twisted in flight.
Licking pa**ions have bitten their arabesques into it,
And the mark of them lies, in and out,
Worm-like,
With the beauty of corroded copper patterning white steel.
My brain is curved like a scimitar,
And sighs at its cutting
Like a sickle mowing gra**.
But of what use is all this to me!
I, who am set to crack stones
In a country lane!