If your work is shouting, deep-breasted,
From sun-up to sundown,
Take care in time, a shouter you'll become.
Voiced, and only big, big voice,
No other route but voice --
Uncorked, fragrant, tanned beneath the sun.
Stoke it in the middle.
Burn, shout.
I had a dream that I presented myself to you
And that you took me,
Sawdust still in the corner needing sweeping.
And in the sunny, dusty corner of the taking,
That you yourself were took --
Possessed, in fact, if even on briefly.
Stoke it in the middle.
Burn, shout.
O, how curious the safehouse
Betwixt studious and drunk:
We wail as well over wine as we do loss.
Bid you more than holy works
From standing by my side.
I bid you back what I have taken from you.