Born with a monocle he stares at life,
And sends his soul on pensive promenades;
He pays a high price for discarded gods,
And then regilds them to renew their strife.
His calm moustache points to the ironies,
And a faun-colored laugh sucks in the night,
Full of the riant mists that turn to white
In brief lost battles with banalities.

Masters are makeshifts, and a path to tread
For blue pumps that are ardent for the air;
Features are fixtures when the face is fled,
And we are left to the husks of tarnished hair;
But he is one who lusts uncomforted
To kiss the naked phrase quite unaware.