A surgeon, I the souls of men dissect,
Bending my feverish brow above their shameless
Perversions, sins, and vices, all their nameless
Primitive lusts and appetites unchecked.
Upon my marble men and women spread
Their open bellies, where I find the hidden
Ulcers of passions filthy and forbidden,
And probe the secret wounds of dramas dread.
Then, while my arms with scrofulous blood are dyed,
I note in poems clear with scrupulous art
What my keen eyes in these dark deeps descried.
And if I need a subject, I am able
To stretch myself on the dissecting table,
And drive the scalpel into my own heart.