“What is he doing here?” was the first thing I heard
Upon entering John Lennon’s home once more,
Deciding in the end to pitch for the party,
Sleepers still being repaired and no trains running still.

The challenge came from Wendy the Witch,
Ex-recipient of roses,
Now thorny-tongued
And egged on by Lennon’s kid, the sneering host.

My bruised ego now vanishing the gift of speech,
Jane Seymour arrived with her medicine bag,
Taking me out under the dark, solitary tree
To take in some air and shop for stars.

“I wouldn’t worry about them much.
Their children will suffer for their occupancy of the womb of death.
You don’t have to, though – get out while you still can.
Now, open wide.” I felt better already.