Go to the land so narrow at girdle,
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That the band of its steeds seem to fly through the time,
Vladimir, rule culture! Pozzo, mash curdle!
I arrived for the snow, a boy in his prime.
Go to the slant of the pebble and wine,
Where its towers are bosomed into Estragonís sign;
Where I drank all beer, and impressed with the plume,
Spilled paint unto Lucky riding his broom.
Go to the grand, to its maids faring prude,
And the boys in the summer gales singing so nude,
To the land of the war, to its hues of blue mire!
When sailors grow wary, into dreams they retire.
Sail to the strand, to the oceans weeping carmine;
Where they burgeon the gaff, the salsa, the swine,
And you take that Estragon, that scarab of man, now supine,
Unbecome bland! Take the hand of my son ó
Do you whistle a reed? I whittled you one!
Go through the sand, ascend our bare well,
Go to Miss Knave, to her masses, and teach them to spell.