A young man had his fingers frost-bitten, and soon after applied to an apothecary who gave him tincture of Arnica to apply. Within fifteen minutes his fingers began to swell and large bullę formed.
If I could will my hands to change,
I'd have them ooze and swell to these.
Oh how there's necks they'd love to seize
and little bones they'd rearrange.
It's not just women I would cleanse,
their stinking tides I'd stanch—
fox, ferret, civet, all whose stench
the menstrual moon offends.
You know the monthly things they do
to drop and lay their egg,
then splay and rut till they can drag
you down to fertilize them through.
With hands like these I'd teach them fear.
I'd let them linger here and there.
There's nothing I would let them spare.
There's nothing I'd not let them tear.
Then when they begged, "I want to die,"
I'd say, "Oh no; I'm done; goodbye."
