Little foundling of mucus and strife
Spurts his runny contents awry,
Tends to fissured toe-nails and dirt-stache.
Fashions some subterfuge out of small talk.
Smelling of soot and garlic,
Only foundling folds and hopes for
Altars reeking of blood,
Or a night of no tremble.
He slips in the side,
Panchinkoed through echoes of epoch,
His insect of inhibition nimble, hither and thither,
Reaches the epicenter of his crime and crumbles.
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