My Name Is Lubbert Das I There is (if you care to know), a flower of folly growing On my brain, on the surface of the matter’s deep. Fit for the Fire, its fate is allotted. To be plucked - no - uprooted, And then chucked on the heap. But won’t it hurt? Well, yes, it will, but (And since you must inquire), there is more than one kind of pain. So with steady hand, and clutching his trephine, the doctor will Incise, excise, cut, and splice, and rid me of this fleur du mal. And i