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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.