Buddha

A little man with a little heart
And a little talent for the poet's art,
And a little idea cramped in his mind
Where the jealousy-hatred snakes are twined,
With their tetanus toxins that strangle the song
Of the generous, exalted, rash and and [sic] strong.
Squat and smug in his corner of musty lore
He sits and the littler he grows [t-?] the more
Is his poison potent. O genius [-]
Do not pity, for through pity [-] the pure have been defiled.

(9 August 1943)