The princess spits on the king,
Lying and ******* as much as she sings.
Her daft sticky package sliding 'cross  
walls of cold expensive rocks;  
She's that goat's toungue on a saltstick,
she's the rain on Ayer's rock.

White and pretty, tall and lonely
Aryan treasure fills her pleasure form:
one light life, of cruel dominance only
slipping between crack and follies
of ***-bound human bodies.

For now we are slime faces,
hidden chef d'œuvres of the waiting.
Today sewer crud, tomorrow
flagships of tall institutions.
Right now, the cold bitter lonely nights
safe of any example, safe of any fright.
Tomorrow the fables maybe;
plastic posters selling out,
while rabies spead and hunger shouts
from yet smaller mouths.