The madman roars: “There were forty of us
Galloping by the spray of the Galilee —
The mud was fresh and dripping
The nails were hard and red.
The doctor shakes his head. “Acute,” he yawns
And lights a cigarette. Rubbing palms
Walks thro’ curls and slips
Into his car, winking at
The duty nurse.
O’ the hill is steep and it’s 3 o’clock
A change of gears as the wipers whip
His mind is busy as he wipes his brow
With summit worries
She throws open, pecks him, shuts the door.
Thinking of her lover, purrs:
“I love you so” —
And after tea and after the last meal
After the usual washing and turning,
The doctor dreams of hooves and waves
And hands that crawl across
And twist him slow
Into a screaming