In Mordor lived a crackpot visionary,
who sought a formula for cotton wool to heal around a soldering iron.
The system was badly perforated, gradually bodily waste
began drooling down the urban sensory nerve -
it was impossible to send his feelers out
Peeping-Tomming on the buxom women
of Hobbiton. Surreptitious suffering behind foggy monocle,
one eardrum, sallow, whimsically popping, and proving totally uncontainable
at its lonely altitude. The day you die: something stupid leaving a trail of blood.