How shall I make my good The Blood?
The Will is free & bars The Way.
The Blood sits back --and cries:
How shall I make? O God! How shall I make?
Desire awaits within the Flesh
( a monument of compliment
The Blood ) tries to comment
--But, Nothing's new, & Nothing's fresh!
Only The Buzzards stay to dine--
The Glory Bird flies on his way
& the Good stops dead--as if to say
How shall I make my Blood be mine!?