I have in my hands the oil which waters

The prophets—I know them clinically;

Their prescriptions I fill cynically.

The rusty lips of all of my daughters

Are pressed like cotton to my waiting ears

As I kiss each one, raping them to see

If I can occur and conquer T.V.—

I must grope fame before it disappears.

My Goliath appears when I am here,

In this purple perception, with no care—

The summit of a mountainous affair—

My Goliath remains my puppeteer.