Mine is a veritable one-way street:
I conceive; I grunt and groan; I sweat;
I bring forth a bawling, bald-headed babe;
It dies; I flare; I scatter the ashes.
Cremation's my primary purpose here!
Let me rake up leaves and pyre them high;
Let me gather kindling and grind the corn;
Let me tear apart phone books and shred old news;
All I need for warmth is a single vesta,
And with it, I'll immolate the world—
As fire-retardant as it seems,
It will still go up in a filthy smoke.
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