I, too dislike it, or at least I find
too much of it bromidic and unrhymed,
muffled in a fog of cottony prose,
frightened of shadows or stepping on toes.
One?… No, a dozen, half-cousined conies,
a trip of lapins, covey of bunnies,
a husk of hares, a snare, a bagged cavort,
a wrack, a crammed sack of snagged lagomorphs.
Ah, my bon bon mama, put up your stuff,
your nuts and nougats, your marshmallow fluffs;
show me the gumdrops, the Zotz and Pop Rocks,
the wax lips, the whips, your heart-red Red Hots.