Upon this verdant lea I lie to ponder thorn and thistle,
What makes a voyage in time apply its soft, plaintive whistle,
Or what tests a sailors grit or grinds his soul and gristle,
Is only that which makes me pine, it also makes me bristle.

Anger wells up within me with thoughts, so loud and lurid,
As though a dream had reached its end, a message hardly lucid,
I grasp my quivering head?  Am I mad?  Am I again deluded?
Or is it Porcina, my love, from whose life I am excluded?

Oh ravishing siren! Whose qualities, measured by the pound,
What gelatinous delight in seeing girth so wide, so positively round!
Yet how didst thou my caresses take and my passion so impound!
In a short-lived tryst I smiled like Pan;  but soon thereafter frowned. 

I’m desperate to sit again upon your finely upholstered lap,
To jostle with your appendages, your handlbars, your flaps;
What is that drink in Boston,  was it an ale? or, mayhaps, a frappe?
At what end shall my life arrive? In what place awaits the trap? 

Sir Run Run Shaw from the Upanishads of Ennui
Venice, circa 1958