Enough running water
To cool the copper worm,
The veins at the wrist,
Vitriol to scorch the throat -
And the brimming hogshead,
Reduced by one noggin-full
Sprinkled on the ground,
Becomes an affair of
Remembered souterrains,
Sunk workshops, out-backs,
The back of the mind -
The whole bog an outhouse
Where, alongside cudgels,
Guns, the informer's ear
We have buried it -
Blood money, treasure trove.
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