Robert Nye
Going to the Dogs
To choose a trap I’d count the numerals
Inside the cap I wore at races
When none of my dogs won, or came in second.
Numbers and colours equally confuse me.
The hare ran true to form, but could not please me.
I barked in discontinuous antitheses.
Until I cried: If I confined myself to error
I could be true as any liar
More truthfully confined to error.
Thus I lost
Each way, in promiscuous either-or.
Page(s) 10-11
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