A humor, though not as humorous as one might hope,
you sit in the shade of my liver,
melancholy incubating in your bitter sack.
You taketh away my French fries and my mayonnaise.
When I sin against you
you waketh me in the witching hour and
maketh me to sit up through the night.
Oh, frost –
Oh, woolly caterpillar –
Oh, harbinger of my imminent winter –
have mercy on me
as you strip from me the luxuries of the flesh.