M. Francis Kennedy, Castlemaine
I met two letters from an antic man,
And said – “You vast and shrunk-less head of bone!
Rant in the desert…!” I read them, (I understand:
Half-drunk?) a shattered vision, lies, whose tone,
And cynic’s trip, and sneer of cold demands,
Tell that its author fell for passions (Dread?)
Which he revives, champing on these lifeless things
(This hand will mock him; ’tis my heart that said);
And on the letterhead these words appeared:
“My name is David Cunningham, King of Cringe;
Look on my Words (these Blights!) that declare:
Nothing decided remains.” Round on the decay
Of these colossal Wrecks, groundless and bare (-faced!)
The bone (-headed) and devils’ hands fetch truth away.
