If Spirit were a nettle root
And the disk of sun — a Bagel —
It spoke to me — a sinecure —
When passing through its ambit
In Underwear it came aroused
And showed its hairy crown
Addressing all its Patrons
A legate versed and round —
If Celery were god's own nub
And we bent to defy
A riot of the kernel spurt
A tuber comes awry.