| If I were tickled by the rub of love, |
| A rooking girl who stole me for her side, |
| Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string, |
| If the red tickle as the cattle calve |
| Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung, |
| I would not fear the apple nor the flood |
| Nor the bad blood of spring. |
| Shall it be male or female? say the cells, |
| And drop the plum like fire from the flesh. |
| If I were tickled by the hatching hair, |
| The winging bone that sprouted in the heels, |
| The itch of man upon the baby’s thigh, |
| I would not fear the gallows nor the axe |
| Nor the crossed sticks of war. |
| Shall it be male or female? say the fingers |
| That chalk the walls with green girls and their men. |
| I would not fear the muscling-in of love |
| If I were tickled by the urchin hungers |
| Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve. |
| I would not fear the devil in the loin |
| Nor the outspoken grave. |
| If I were tickled by the lovers' rub |
| That wipes away not crow’s-foot nor the lock |
| Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws, |
| Would leave me cold as butter for the flies, |
| The sea of scums could drown me as it broke |
| Dead on the sweethearts' toes. |
| This world is half the devil’s and my own, |
| Daft with the drug that’s smoking in a girl |
| And curling round the bud that forks her eye. |
| An old man’s shank one-marrowed with my bone, |
| And all the herrings smelling in the sea, |
| I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail |
| Wearing the quick away. |
| And that’s the rub, the only rub that tickles. |
| The knobbly ape that swings along his sex |
| From damp love-darkness and the nurse’s twist |
| Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle, |
| Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast |
| Of loever, mother, lovers, or his six |
| Feet in the rubbing dust. |
| And what’s the rub? Death’s feather on the nerve? |
| Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss? |
| My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree? |
| The words of death are dryer than his stiff, |
| My wordy wounds are printed with your hair. |
| I would be tickled by the rub that is: |
| Man be my metaphor. |