Of that last state the Thinking Beast
Peep through the foliage of the feast,
And crown its poet's flight with greased
Fingers that grope the dark;
Have heard a cleanlier bosom catch
Her breath, and fumble with my latch
Irresolute. The lark
"My inmates never feared to match
Bespoke the end. I belched the batch,
Rolling them down the street, a patch