The stammering, stalling, simpering waltz,
That is my walk on winter streets.
The brush and touch of botching breeze,
That adjusts all to out-of-joint.
My eyes are too big, and forthright,
Frank, upturned, un-suspicious, eyes.
They're wet and swelling, promontories,
Over white and barbed, and jagged cheeks.
And yet for every stone that lands,
And shields that once I freely lowered,
For hides between me and this acid world,
I would not trade my fortunes twice,
As after all my fortunes be,
That I am unafraid of me.
