A surgeon takes an auger in his hand
And slowly grinds away the dusty bone;
And so a disk of chalk is flung away,
Thereby revealing more than should be known
Of inner workings, intricate, occult;
The throbbing pulsing membrane leaks its juice,
And shews the world a cluttered close, a vault.
This graven hole it serves a very sluice.
Therefrom the sour encumbrance of the mind,
Spills forth, a suasive potent psychic slime.

How very like the way I scribble here,
Uncovering what is hidden ’neath a veil.
So oft my soul enflames and brims with hell,
I write that I might bleed it and grow pale.
For bloodless faint is better than its foe;
A sanguine apoplexy of the brain,
Which leaves the mind half numb
And half in pain.

Let then this pour from out that orifice,
Which pen and ink a very mercy make;
’Twill free you from the bondage of that weight,
Which only scrivenry can ably slake.
We drill into our minds, dissect apart,
And so, thereby, our varied humors chart.
Come, friends, let’s examine who we are,
The meat, the very nerve, the wound ajar.

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