hurrah for those who ride
Through the jaws of boiling sluices, yeasty
white from side to side!
Our brawny fists are calloused and we’re mostly
holes and hair,
But if grit were golden bullion we’d have coin
to spend, and spare!
Here some rips and there the lips of a whirl-
pool’s bellowing mouth,
Death we clinch and Time we fight, for be-