What inklings rise up
Round about like worms
From moist soil look
Askance as I, have
Their work to do
And I may have mine
It sometimes seems
Late in the day torn
Bleeding from the
Pushing and shoves of
Medieval medicine’s
Demands, I have hand
Cuffs some place,
Lost, perhaps, a sign
That I’ve been and
Then forgotten save
For regular visits
Not to be missed
Lest I fall from grace
And am erased
Before my time.
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