I think that I shall never see

a poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose tender mouth is press'd

against your pallid, quaking chest!

A tree that lifts it's arms to pray

o'er Nyalarhothep's piping fray!

A tree whose sacred seed is cast

in hot, corrosive acid blast,

Girthed by half-caste Barbaloots

with keening pipes, in Barbaloot Suits.

Whose squamous, cold, delicious plums

foretold in manic barb'rous tongues,

by dint of vile saltes manifest

your return, at last, to icy depths.