Let the worm die, “tis but a goose less!”
Not you and take me up by storm him.
You tie hum down and chloroform him.
You do not pray to Thoth or Horus,
but make one dash for his pylorus:–
And ten years elapse, and he
Complaints, " O doctor, pity me !
Your cruel 'ands, for goodness sakes
Gave me such 'orrid stomach-aches.
You write him, with a face of flint,
An oder for some soda-mint.
So Yoga, Life’s a carcinoma,
Its cause uncertain, not to cheek.
In vain you cry to Isis: “O ma !
I’ve got it faintly in the neck.”
The surgeon Crowley, with his trocar,
Says you a poor but silly bloke are,
Adverse concentration’s knife
Quick to the horny growth called life.
“Yoga” There’s danger in the biz !
But, it’s only chance there is !"
(For life, if left alone, is sorrow,
And only fools hope God’s to-morrow.)
“The Last Ditch.” pg. 209
Collected Works of Aleister Crowley