Plough take your thin arms from about my middle
Leave me free to unscroll the wisdom of other flesh.
Oh you are jealous plough, you drive the fingers
Of your lust-longing deep in my folds of manhood.
Release me, release me, my desires would run
In shallower furrows of passion, I am no hero
Your breath is too strong for an aesthete
You are smothering me in the brown blankets.
You have kissed me a thousand times,
You have twisted my shoulders and my will.
Oh clinging posessive [sic] mistress, o plough
Though I break your hold your charms posess [sic] me still
§ The poem is marked 'Dub Mag'.
Line 7 is a correction of: 'Your breath is stronger than onions, I die almost'
