We belch to the tune of drunk Moselle.
What a noise in the temples—hammering blood.
Shall we sit down? Are we altogether well?
‘How weedily the river exhales!’
‘Like the smell of caterpillar’s dung.’
‘You too collected?’ ‘When I was young,
But used no camphor; Moth prevails
Over moths, you take me.’ Sounding close,
But God knows where, two landrails scrape
Nails on combs. Her hair is loose,