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You spoke of our defects, and the pressures we have to bear, wearing a tragedian's mask, but the voice declaiming - pitched high, maiming my fragile pride. Imagine those ears hiding up chimneys and in cupboards! At the nub of their economic organization, patiently striving to secure sure borders for a privately intimate retreat with curtains drawn, I mourn my lack of golden solitude. Glued to the figurehead up front, (and gagged,) wagging a remonstrative finger at the gossip-slingers, who bring me my daily bread (while pissing on it), I ponder the dubious merit of established estates.      For those who dwell beneath a public eye,      there are few shadows where it cannot pry.