Because the Pleasure-Bird Whistles by Dylan Thomas

Because the pleasure-bird whistles after the hot wires, / Shall the blind horse sing sweeter?

Convenient bird and beast lie lodged to suffer / The supper and knives of a mood.

In the sniffed and poured snow on the tip of the tongue of the year / That clouts the spittle like bubbles with broken rooms, / An enamoured man alone by the twigs of his eyes, two fires, / Camped in the drug-white shower of nerves and food, / Savours the lick of the times through a deadly wood of hair

In a wind that plucked a goose, / Nor ever, as the wild tongue breaks its tombs, / Rounds to look at the red, wagged root.

Because there stands, one story out of the bum city, / That frozen wife whose juices drift like a fixed sea

Secretly in statuary, / Shall I, struck on the hot and rocking street, / Not spin to stare at an old year / Toppling and burning in the muddle of towers and galleries / Like the mauled pictures of boys?

The salt person and blasted place / I furnish with the meat of a fable; / If the dead starve, their stomachs turn to tumble / An upright man in the antipodes / Or spray-based and rock-chested sea:

Over the past table I repeat this present grace.