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Little eagle chick,
Sucking butter from hot toast.
I feel like Buddha.
Brittle and bright, your magnificent shell,
Fragile and taut as attic drums,
It is the shroud of your diminishment,
Apace your nemesis comes.
Haughtily you perch, a bird of veneers,
Too fat to fly, too dull to sing,
Glare at the distance from darkening bough,
And decry the birds on the wing.
The ego-shine, divine! What grand design!
All things in your estimation,
Are proclaimed this or that, tuneful or flat,
To deaf, enrapt congregations.