On a feed through Pennsylvania,
I felt my need for Transylvania.
From that damp bed back in Most,
Where last I buried my Czech ghost,
To this cellar dark and wet,
I won't go there, at least not yet . . .
I'll roam the Allegheny nights,
To see what plain poetry can fright.
Before dawn I'll slink to my berth,
But wake anon, in stinking earth.
The touch of soil, my native mud,
Brings to boil, my lust for blood.
