In Peterson’s Year of Hell

Oh fever’d night of sleepless hues!

Know I now of duty’d dues

Unto ones word-wracked neural paths

Churned and spun on Lethos’ lathes.

How to close my brain—each strain

Of thought, then verse, how to restrain

These mental heats that burst and show

Me as the cud-chewn spotted cow

That stalks myself like Ahab’s brow?

Pray hie thee hence away from me!

Allow some peace, some fraughtless space

Wherein verses, strain’d, shall be

O!

Hide me, lobster’s carapace!