**** darwinism...
i want my furr back!
i'm tired of being a bus
driver!
                 rotondo roulette
roundabout:
                 you
are but deaf in
making me be compassionate prone....
you are, of all i make a zulu of
a tongue to speak in,
neither Mc near close encounter with a Mac...
and not ye two nearer a reconpasse....
aye, tilting toward the might of the Picts,
learned tongue forbade the tongue to weave....
glassfar aeyer the glutton worth f bossom....
                   and into tha death bed healthily
cling to the roß: gørt!
                              you have no favours intact
bound to cleave to me...
you are arsenic bound... artefact of arson!
and no more be you clung!
                   forgive the one who was
bound the crux, and forgive no one else...
come to me bidding knee, and
         i'll show you where a hail mary
sends you: toward the Dantian drift,
and Milton's escapism worth a wish to have,
unto brother, done as Cain did, thrice toward Abel.
so led by Macbeth...
and unto no other, i wish to return,
having not prior been blessed...
  not until the seagulls of a king learned
to be king without a crown...
you will not weep for me, so why bother to give
etertainment to a grave?
             sooner a war, and sooner a marble statue...
than this...
  this pathetic gratification for a doubled concern
for the wordly bliss...
     there! rhyme St. Lancelot!
to your fate and... rhyme! rhyme! prance!
                            make one's due...
a baron of asking for la carte -
if that be the right case of seeking menu:
vampirism of the glut, that before
the tongue has tasted, the eye has ate!
eat! eat! may you eat enough,
to sing me an opera after! burp! long live
the inglorious cringe!
               so, rhyme St. Lancelot... prace and dance!
make one the ambiguity of pronouns! polo!
polo monsieur! dare the Pict, dressed in woad,
take to explaining tattoo?
   who the **** is ginger these days, monsieur?!
you are but a foul creature,
reigning from Edinburgh, not having read
Macbeth... toast to spitting into a champagne flute
as be your honour, and at least this:
      to where i find myself...
           in mist bound, and carcass sowing
a smile or signature bestowing...
             laid to rest, by the meadow's care for clue,
by witchy assemble, i have a tongue of a hyena
laughing at the epitaphs of the human desert
that's a marble etch... and i'll have you more!
   morose i am, bound to scoff the last of
the most concentrate words of worth whehter bound
to man, or beast!
   these times are not impeding a charity for a man
of my concern... they are are here as
counter to whatever served as balance...
  lo, last said, Macbeth,
             first with the nightingale and quake:
Macbeth... thus last with qualm and the highland
prone... to fall! to desist! then to a crow,
with croak and magpie salute.. Macbeth!
             i feel no romance for Hamlet...
       even though i should...
you are, but your own tamed lady, approaching your
first male couch victim... and that cheap eroticism
of a low-land scandinavian squire fir moor dukes...
  that thing: danish bound...
                     before i type out the dialect of picts...
i better type out the dialects of my own kind...
                                  but since i have no beginning,
i have only the immediate... and the end is a tad bit...
     unnecessary.
now that can only mean one thing:
i should have really have invested in adjoining with a woman...
why didn't i?
     was it because the civilisation i was living
in was not worth saving?
       why didn't i make matrimony with a woman?
ah feckle see and seer's boo tock!
                     tick-ah-lick-ah-lick-ah-true... saves saying: me
or you... ye 'ear?! rot's worth in Dundee, ya
clotting dodger... e don, it's called a Beethoven
sequence... one side wanted a joke anf ah friendly verse,
the other side wanted a statue of liberty...
                none of us seemed to walk
under the cottonwood trees of some imaginary
street akin to avenue des champs-élysées.
    i don't know, i'm no jew making money
from the holocaust. no wait, they're not?!
    god forbid it could happen!  why did i add that?
i felt ashamed not creating a collage
  of tabloid and worded mâché
to the trough akin...
well... the other reason i wrote that with such gravitas
is because my family was involved in
the second world war, and didn't
receive any deutsche marks, in compensation
money... it would be fun if they did...
but they didn't... so where's the ha ha?
    zu tun Spielberg? or is that
Spitzerbergen? don't look at me, i'm not
making money from it!
   i wish my great-grandmother made a bestseller novel
from her world war ii experiences...
              but she didn't...
i just get reminded about the jews
    the jews, the jews...
and am never told about the stupidity of warsaw, 1944.
oh wait, i was, and i still didn't make any
money from it!