Surrounded in a sea of weeds
Your spear has gained a head
Practice for the wrestlers
Of bee, tussling in your hair
Of bee, tussling in your hair
The oceans did not like you
Little punk anemone
The skies did not take to you
Disguised as planet
You're certainly no tree,
Soft little plum
You're certainly no tree,
Soft little plum
What is left to do but bow
When the dog cocks its leg
Trembling in wet sorrow
To see you fledged in summer
Fist of Venus, feast of fly
A mace of morning dew
Long I look into your sinew
