From muddled clay where this Book was founded, O Sultana, the vainglum peasants who huddle your ankles, bring their flippers for your spatula, whooshing like damseled whorls before you. May the foreskinned tribes cast better wishes, make curtsy pies and cabbaged kowtow soup. In your meadow slashed to stubby-love, may this lament dwindle to your pheasant-licked toes. Like a golden pricked massage may you not be spiritless, may this mud become your broth.