With wings that limb the beaten bore, Inside branches red to mud, blush and Dowse him, before the birding Sucks onto the pine. There be creeping a winding bottle, Blue in bud, spore-filled, boorish; A charcoal dinner of savoury wood, And muted burly fruiting. Beneath, the waiting traveller, a dusty Grass companion. Flailing dimly along the Bark wood- tempting feasts with Nose's crook. Smiling pretty beneath the pine tree, A sugary cheek becomes the rice mound, Frustrated, shaking, he throbs the timber; They watch him quietly, Ear to ear.