I.

I don’t leave life or live it,
Or take advice or give it,
Or keep my health or rend it,
Or borrow style or lend it.

I don’t use a doctor or a dentist,
Or a master or apprentice,
Or a banker or accountant,
Or a molehill or a mountain.

I don’t sow barren or reap floral,
Or do silent or too oral,
Or go solo or in tandem,
Or in sequence or at random.

I don’t have sex or masturbate,
Or fixed needs or estimates,
Or watch pornography or miss it,
Or impress in bed or piss it.

I don’t need a lover or a hater,
Or a follower or instigator,
Or an income or expenditure,
Or distraction or attention cure.

I don’t eat right or detox wrong,
Or take the first or final one,
Or peel my food or ever drink it,
Or am too thin or fat to think it.

I don’t swim or walk on water,
Or fly or fall in autumn,
Or run or tread too slowly,
Or stand or bow too lowly.

I don’t talk or listen clearly,
Or pray every day or yearly,
Or read or write enough,
Or take or give much love.

I don’t want work or leisure,
Or have to guess or measure,
Or trim my coin or stretch it,
Or throw it around or fetch it.

And I do not want or am contented
To be shrunken or augmented,
Or lastly exonerated
And by you appropriated.