Coleridge

As opium-sweat
Beads on your brow
And your pay-the-rent
Newspaper columns remain
Closed tombs
In your ship-tossed
Mind,
Your wife grinds her teeth,
Your child nurses what's left,
And flames in the fireplace
Flicker with Wordsworth.

As opium-sweat
Mats your hair
And stings your eyes,
You compose
Your "Kubla Khan",
Like a deaf Beethoven,
Like a night-crazed Mozart,
Like a rabid dog
Alone on a raft
At sea.


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