To live outside the pale
Is to wither and die
Beyond the pale
There are only dressed-up cadavers

They are wound up each day
Like alarm clocks
They perform like seals
They die like box office
Like box office receipts

They perform like seals
They die, they die
They perform like seals
They die, they die
Each day, each day

Each day, each day

But in the seething honey-comb
There is a growth as of plants
An animal warmth almost suffocating
A vitality which accrues
From rubbing and glueing together
A hope which is physical
As well as spiritual
A contamination which is dangerous but salutary

Small souls perhaps
Burning like tapers
But burning steadily
And capable of throwing portentous shadows
On the walls which hem them in

All goes round and round
All goes round and round
Creaking, wobbling, lumbering
Whimpering some-tunes
But round and round and round
But round and round and round

Then, if you become very still
Standing on a stoop, for instance
And carefully think no thoughts
And carefully think no thoughts
A myopic, bestial clarity besets your vision

There is a wheel
There are spokes
And there is a hub

And in the center of the hub there is exactly

Nothing