(no subject)
Super radiant powers of reviving the dead, I happened to awaken William Blake and kindly asked he write one last poem before rolling back into the foxtrot slumber.
The Scenster
- William Blake
Scenster, scenster, burning bright,
In the stroblights of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant thrift store
Framed the glasses of thine eyes?
On what shaggy black hair dare he aspire?
What the hand dare set his hipstervenue on fire?
And what shoulder, and what art, with nifty little striped scraf,
Lies anti-war buttons and twist the sinews of thy bledding heart?
When thy heart began to beat,
What dread blistered hand forged thy conversed feet?
What the hammer? What the walet chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the whitebelt? What dread grasp
Dared its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their emotears,
Did He smile his work to see?
Did He who made the mod make thee?
The Scenster
- William Blake
Scenster, scenster, burning bright,
In the stroblights of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant thrift store
Framed the glasses of thine eyes?
On what shaggy black hair dare he aspire?
What the hand dare set his hipstervenue on fire?
And what shoulder, and what art, with nifty little striped scraf,
Lies anti-war buttons and twist the sinews of thy bledding heart?
When thy heart began to beat,
What dread blistered hand forged thy conversed feet?
What the hammer? What the walet chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the whitebelt? What dread grasp
Dared its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their emotears,
Did He smile his work to see?
Did He who made the mod make thee?