We have to knit one and pearl one, two bouncing babies, a boy and a girl one because we like to keep things neat.
I used to be neat
not a beatnik
like Rik,
who is immortalised
yet again in the poem

he should pay me.

and who can blame me?
I'm coming up short for a trip
to Poundland.

hope on a rope is
like the soap but
doesn't wash away.

Dangle your suspicions
strangle my concerns
the world turns
even if it is flat
which I never believed
being well rounded.