The “Hulling Place” spits a spin of spume
Steaming from brink to brink,
And it seemed that my soul was cuffed in a
bowl
Where a giant was mixing his drink.
And ’twas only by luck or freak or fate,
Or because I’m reserved to be hung,
That I found myself on a boulder shelf
Where I flattened and gasped and clung.
To left the devilment roared and boiled,