I smoke Dope.

The inflated possum that dwells in the mirror,
Chip’d teeth and legs torn akimbo,
Sewn up sleeve of furry
Mumbo jumbo.
She says
‘Do not blame the jilted edge,
Oh snappy crystal, vain and trans-
Lucent looking glass.
It is not the mirror that,
Is inaccurate, as a matter
Of fact, it is your peepers,
Fleshy tower-guards that squish in
Your barracks.
It is their rotting notion,
Infirmary blink,
Not the reflection.
That does you ill.