Upon my donkey.
There are several more verses which serve as proof that out in the rhubarbs the molasses candy is a mocker and soda pop a raging. The only redeeming feature in free verse is its mystery. Take this thing by Ellen Janson in “The Measure” entitled “Shadowy—Under My Window,” for example:
Shadowy—under my window—
Your low reed sobs
Its desert love-song to the remembering stars.
Shadowy—
All the night my breasts are lilies,
My lips are passion flowers.
Now, there you are—a nice idea, neatly handled and mysterious. Your guess as to what Poetess Janson is driving at is as good as mine—and both probably are wrong. Perhaps she was talking to Fred Beauvais under her window, or Jim Stillman. Or it may have been the alley cat—a thing sobbing in the backyard to the remembering stars.
And so the mystery thickens like onion jelly.