My arm-chair’s made of wood,
The ankle of the arm-rest swells with pain
All day today. Ah, possibly for good,
All day today again
I have not left this chair.

How should I dare?

What, heavy, my hand holds up
Is the tome on the crucifixion
It teems with medical terms
“Moreover”, it says of germs,
“The germs are the inflamation.”