Failing sometimes to understand
   Why there are folk whose flesh should seem
   Like carrion puffed with noisome steam,
   Fly-blown to the eye that looks on it,
   Fly-blown to the touch of a hand;
   Why there are men without any legs,
   Whizzing along on little trollies
   With long long arms like apes’:
   Failing to see why God the Topiarist
   Should train and carve and twist
   Men’s bodies into such fantastic shapes:
   Yes, failing to see the point of it all, I sometimes wish
   That I were a fabulous thing in a fool’s mind,
   Or, at the ocean bottom, in a world that is deaf and blind,
   Very remote and happy, a great goggling fish.
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