You only know order from the waist down
And the rest is primitive distress
That feeds from your need to compound
The crime of your lifelessness.
The solemn terror that perturbs
Your affection gives no protection
Against any sentiment that disturbs
The purity of your direction.
Blame, like a graceless crown, shifts
And crawls across all I have lost.
I affirm its terms with gifts
That defy all reason and cost.