Wittgenstein’s lion (1)

says, I can roar and blink on four slow feet. The scared Mädchen in my eye can madden like tooth-sore and gnawed paw. My tufa brow! But I long for quince, vulval, grown near seas . I scent you, tho, and am sad for a time,lamentably til I'm shrill and not a single clearing escapes, & not a single whelp It's pulpous for a time til the calm of the head that's been mercifully gnawed and chawed can rest on its own

Shuttered or thrashing, cleaving, you are tired, too, thin beyond belief and toss me chickens, snatched in mid-air, for safety & relief