There exists in both squalor and dejection
A gift, a prize no scale can compensate
Though its weight is heavy for those
Who venture to lift it up.
My beginnings were but the scraps
Of another man’s ruinous end.
I have survived this and much more besides
My heart is damp and pungent
A fertile vat into which all invasions
Are tempered with growth.
Tis a fine thing indeed to be shit,
For every molecule contains life.