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'