Out of thy proper anus thou shalt flow.

A damsel drier than the raisin'd grape,Warmer than boxwood or than virgin wax,Who pismires clustering on her every limbMaketh a bulky-corpulent folk appear;One whose unopened bowels through her skinThe Tuscan wizard can at will prospect;One who like rotten pounce so lacking juiceNone ever saw her with a slavering lip;One whom for blood her arteries withinTo have sand or sawdust differing leeches deem--Such one to visit me anights is wontBringing with ghostly leanness ghastly hue;Whist I (like island iron-forger) seem