MACK the KNIFE

INASMUCH the latent Owl might have been that
TooBoldCu[n]t of noise, as the Tare limped tremulous
Along while mumbling his little broken prayer to Death,

INASMUCH as Freud concentrated on the id
& that blind eye of calculus, calculating the bleak
Prospect concerning the dried-out administration

Of things if just to sustain himself against his own
Travails, feeling that feelings would give in to a doubt-
ful Dare against twisted roots of Night’s shade.

There then is an uneasy Acquiescence drooling
From which correctives range the Downy Owl
To Wolf’s Bane. From which a Chain-

Drooped Lamp Hounds Each Door, Almost Failing
The Half-Smiling, Downward Glance of Funeral’s Pace.