Taurus

Old hoary-bristled Wotan, old horny thunderhead;
Wrought of the cold earth's rawness
To the iron cauldron of your stance for stud,
A thoughtless thread needled by rich men through the eye
Of the stony generations - now you cry, as though the wind
Snags on your cusp. Oh turn, for god's sake turn away!
I am shamed by the stamp of bland humanity
You brand me with. Display your dunce's
Stumble, nonce-beast, make me snort
At your absurdity, be daft - or damned and wither
Into dust! Be kind. Be only the dour
And chaplinesque demeanour of a dumb behind,
The indifferent swank of bullhood
Packed into a mass of tons.