There’s nothing that I eat that I can’t find some way to spill.
I do it with panache; I mean, why do it with ill will?
I’m clumsy as a metaphor that’s made up of clichés —
And spill so much my shirt has got a constant sort of glaze
Made up of every thing that I have tried that day to eat:
But what I wear’s a lot like me
Sort of sweet