Poetry is awfully dull. I prefer treasure, but not the kind giving pleasure. I give myself to the red kind, substitute the gold. Gold's gild is all old anyway, cracks growing green like mold. I can see the gold falling apart, splitting into finer grains of sand; they slip through my fingers, greedily crouching I now stand and go to the darkness. The red stuff waits for me there, and I can serve my madness, grinning amorphous, speaking mouthless, a fine old friend named Burgess.