Old Sawbones, Pale As A Sheet, White Sand, Whispering Edge Of The Sea. Ii The Mind Tarries Not One Place Long, (Longitudinal Wanderings Off A Map). Is Shiftless, Both A Shirker (And Army Deserter) Devours Like Larvae, A Bullet Ledge For Leaves. Iii I Saw In A Rusty Tankard A Gallon Drum (Ghostly Galleon At That), A Tin Can Floating For All The World Shores Of Its Alkaline Prison, Pirating Salinity With Anchoring Sounds, Brackish Bench-Pressed Sound Of Waves Wedged Between Far-Off Distant Gulls And Mezzanine, Dimly-Lit Funeral Parlour Of The Sun.