Lisa Jarnot

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.