Convolution

The night, a child, eager
to eat the very flesh of your wounds
but to fight the fever
you drink that golden neck
of icy rounded gloom

step in the old slaloom
crippling and suitable entrance
crowded as usual you're sitting by
no one to sheer or to blame.

and now surounded by eagers
your crowd is worth a pitiful prize

"oh shall we pay you a little round today
of this fine scalding golden brew we've bought"