oh i was a bad man, a bad bad man... i better pay up, and say my prayers; you won't give me the Bob Dylan meadows of Kentucky tomorrow... you won't, just drive-through assertions on centipedes, Alistair Armstrong on the moon, the discovered and boring Alaska and Antarctic... what else, tortoise Tsars talking penguin? before the science gets there, the fiction will be repulsive to begin with.

and to think a tyrant like Henry VIII
could write the anthem (greensleeves) that's not
god save the queen*, and allow the queen her head?
but i'm sure the proverbial fancy of England
undermined both William and Canute
with her willing ways and her
hip-borne sways...
to mind i have but the Arabian girl
in mind her elephant costume of Baghdad -
but of course i revel is speaking for
all things human -
a timely message some would say with
choking at the joke - and i too,
for to hear the cockchafer, candle-lit moonlight
the baking of potatoes, the old ways of communism
spoken from the woods, ancient adverts
for the creased shirt, i'd be the African
                                                Bambo boy of tomorrow;
wild man of the north, whitened, ain't
Eskimo, and ain't no believer in superstition -
a man that feeds no soul to only feed the mind
and this, requested world, clean shaven
and happy tie-tight-dressed for the day-job,
loose feet numbering 7 inches in 12 inch shoes,
my tongue of a pauper in a wallet of a billionaire
spending a lifetimes's worth of food
and whatever vanities dragged into the stench
of a squat.