He covertly rubs his hands,
wiping an "A" from his mouth
sprinkles his ankles
with ashes of "summer's days".

He licks his blue lips,
parting to speak:
Not empty but "full", he howls
and, rolling the empty bowles-
with loads "of sound"-
to the edge of the table:

"And fury" he cries- shrill and brief
- Crash!
the little green ******, the *******,

that word-loving thief!

He slides down the wooden leg,
silently now, scurrying back.
Head low, mouth sealed,
yielding
                 the field
                             to the writers.