WS at the Chinese Buffet
As flies to wonton soup are we to the guards
If us they see at all they spoon us roughly forth
And benapkin our salty corpses with discretion.
Yet, atimes, the corpse proves itself false; not dead
But only numbed. Crawling from its whitish sepulchre
It tumbles down and down‘til intercepted belike
By trouser cuff decreed by some kind fate unsewn.