A Babylonian once told me:
When my name bores me,
I throw it in the river
And return renewed!
* * * * *
Basra existed
Even before al-Sayyab* viewed its streets
Bathed in poetry
As verdant as
A poet’s heart when her
Prince pauses trustfully to sing
While sublime maidens dance--
Brown like mud in the orchards
Soft like mud in the orchards
Scented with henna like mud in the orchards—
And a poem punctuates each of their pirouettes as
They walk straight to the river.
I’ve discovered no place in the city broader than Five Mile.
He declared:
I used to visit there night and day,
When sun and moon were locked in intimate embrace.
Then they quarreled.
The Gulf’s water was sweet,
Each ship would unload its cargo,
And crew members enjoyed a bite of an apple
And some honey.
The women were radiant;
So men’s necks swiveled each time ladies’ shadows
Moved beneath the palms’ fronds.
These women needed no adornment;
Translated by William Hutchins
……………………………………………………………..
Basra, also written Basrah  is the capital of Basra Governorate, located on the Shatt al-Arab river in southern Iraq between Kuwait and Iran. It had an estimated population of 1.5 million of 2012.
Basra is also Iraq's main port, although it does not have deep water access, which is handled at the port of Umm Qasr.
The city is part of the historic location of Sumer, the home of Sinbad the Sailor, and a proposed location of the Garden of Eden. It played an important role in early Islamic history and was built in 636 AD or 14 AH. It is Iraq's second largest and most populous city after Baghdad.
Basra is consistently one of the hottest cities on the planet, with summer temperatures regularly exceeding 50 °C (122 °F)
Badr Shakir al Sayyab (December 24, 1926 – 1964) was an Iraqi and Arab poet. Born in Jekor, a town south of Basra in Iraq, he was the eldest child of a date grower and shepherd.
He graduated from the Higher teachers training college of Baghdad in 1948
Badr Shakir was dismissed from his teaching post for being a member of the Iraqi Communist Party.
Badr Shakir al-Sayyab was one of the greatest poets in Arabic literature, whose experiments helped to change the course of modern Arabic
poetry. At the end of the 1940s he launched, with Nazik al-Mala'ika,and shortly followed by ʿAbd al-Wahhāb al-Bayātī and Shathel Taqa, the free verse movement and gave it credibility with the many fine poems he published in the fifties.
These included the famous "Rain Song," which was instrumental in drawing attention to the use of myth in poetry. He revolutionized all the elements of the poem and wrote highly involved political and social poetry, along with many personal poems.

Shrouded in secrets
The men from F-Branch
Recite the techniques
Undiscussed in advance
Of Democracy's dance
Democracy's dance
Democracy's Dance with Terror.

Outside the port of Umm-Qasr
Hundreds of men
Hooded in the dark
Of the midday sun
Kneeling on the run
From Democracy's Dance with Terror.

Suspected by students
Back home and online
Theories get conspired
Petitions get signed
"Stop Democracy's Dance!
Stop Democracy's Dance!
Stop Democracy's Dance with Terror!"

The attorney general
Is called for advice.
A solemn exchange
Top down bottom line.
His argument is
"If it's nice it's all right."

Ministers from Ministries
Are detained and questioned
By the goggles of a press
Suffering sleep deprivation.
It's like a game of touch rugby
Outside downing street
With a twist on the rules of 'Just a minute'.

And outside the port of Umm-Qasr
Democracy doggedly dances her dance.

But the rhythms of the dance
The stress of white noise
Peaked
And escaped on the wind
Blowing through the forgotten kindness
Of confused hearts and minds
Escaping through the drafty guilt
Of hung up uniforms
Dancing on the mumbling lips
Of sleeping soldiers
With wives, partners, families, friends
Back home
Who don't know what it's like
They don't understand the drill
They can't do the moves
They don't know what it's like.

But the dance did not stop
It did what every bad vibration does
And moved elsewhere
And was henceforth known
By an unpronounceable acronym:
JFIT!

And now we join James
Young musclebound man
With a drink in hand
Back from tour of duty
It's a Saturday night
And the Weston women like a soldier,
A real man.
The fact that he
Has been doing his duty.
"Do you mind if I ask..." Asked Deborah
Showing more than necessary of her bra
"Where was you based, your base in Iraq-
Your third base, in particular?"
"I'll tell you," Said James
And the ladies came quick
Putty in his hands
Just like a joystick.
Said James, with the gravitas
Or some silverscreen star,
"While out in Iraq,
I was stationed
At a British logistics base in Shaiba.
It's outside Basra.
Basra in Iraq.
Iraq?
You have heard of Iraq?"
But by then,
Deborah and her bra and her friends
Were talking to another group of men
Who worked in property development
And apparently, Deborah, they're neighbours
Or something, because that one said
They've got seventeen houses between them.

But what James hadn't told them is this
The exact meaning of words in English
Like British Logistics camp is
Not always what you think that it is.

Oh did I say camp?
I meant base.
Please delete any mention of camp
From the record.

It was not long before
That James' routine
Had been... very different
To say the least.

Indeed soon after crossing the border
And re-invading his parents' home again
He'd been watching Jeremy Vine when
He spotted a pattern of systematic abuse
On the curtains
Whenever he muted the telly.

James decided to get out of the house
And to help him get a grip
He decided to go shopping
But when he looked down at his list
It said:

59 hoodies
11 Electric plugs
52 Alarm clocks
122 pairs of earmuffs
160 torches
117 blackened goggles
132 stress positions
39 enforced nakednesses

And by this stage he realised
That perhaps he ought to see someone.
But instead of seeing a journalist
Or the Swedish King of wikileaks
He went and saw a military psychiatrist
Who charged him a lot to let him speak
On a one-off profit plus! contract
James ended asking the same question
Week after week -
Do you think I'm crazy?
What does all this mean?
The doctor replied:
"Of course you're not crazy,
It's just your mind is very ill,
I'll tell one part of it to ignore another part -
Here - take one of these little pills
They're only one pound ten each
And if you take one
Every three hours
Every day
For the rest of your life
(Or until you die,
Whichever is longer)
You'll be fine.

Meanwhile,
The dance continued to be taught
Like capoeira on a foreign-office team-building course
On the art of interrogation
The alpha-tango
Aimed at prisoners of war.
But the footsteps of karma
Where circling once more
And the base back at Shaiba
(Near Basra. In Iraq?)
Was once more withdrawn
This time to the airport
Along with other UK forces.

Now relatives of the victims
Both at home and abroad
And those most susceptible
To empathy's ill-considered force
Were planning to divert the dance -
Divert the Dance!
Divert the Dance
with Demo Dances,
Demo Dances!
Demo Dances!

Then it was the turn of the politicians
To work their magic of popular logisticians
By answering the questions no one has asked
Like are we human or are we just dancers?
We are just humans
Doing democracy's dance
Democracy's Dance
Democracy's dance with
(cough, cough).

And the news reporters
With their sleep-deprived goggles
Reported in such detail
As to make one's mind boggle
Each step, each move and each deliberate error
Of democracy's dance
Democracy's dance
Democracy's dance
With Terror.

(To be Continued... on the BBC)

in this world
the drums of scrap
steps leading
CIA man nodded
neutralize it.

"So we understand yes?"

"Fascinating."

massacre

Understood?
Saddam Hussein
On her next stopover in Basra
black-Nigel, came kissing?

When you don't want to say it in words, let your actions do the talking. And we're talking about celebrities' relationships here. It seems that the words 'we are just good friends' is also passe. Nowadays, even a selfie with your lovely other half says it all. So, while the media can hound the actors everywhere they go for that one quote to admit to their relationship, the B-Town folks choose to do it in their own style. Most commonly, they walk hand-firmly-in-hand to events, parties and premieres — pretty much confirming their 'couple' status. Recently, Salman Khanmade a grand entry at Preity Zinta-Gene Goodenough's wedding party with Romanian model/actress Iulia Vantur and everyone went into a frenzy. They didn't walk in hand-in-hand, but well, that day doesn't seem too far away. Though at a recent event, when asked about his marriage plans, Salman siad, "It's between me and my fans." Iulia too shared on her phto-sharing profile that she's "in no hurry to wear her wedding dress." Here is taking a look at other celebrities who walked the red carpet together, and soon after walked down the aisle.

Despite the strong buzz about a relationship brewing between Bipasha Basu and Karan Singh Grover during the shoot of 'Alone', both actors kept mum about the reports. It was only when Karan was promoting his second film that he conceded that Bipasha 'is special and very dear' to him. Every time the media questioned them, the two actors consistently kept quiet about their relationship. At the same time, they never shied away from posting pictures of them, while going on their holidays.

Even when reports of their wedding plans made news, the couple at first denied them but soon confessed that April 29 was indeed the day on which they were tying the knot.

Yuvraj Singh and Hazel Keech

Indian cricketer Yuvraj Singh annouced at teammate Harbhajan Singh's wedding with Geeta Basra last October that Hazel Keech was the woman he'll spend the rest of his life with. A month later, when they went holidaying in Bali, he popped the question with a ring and she accepted. The two are said to be tying the knot later this year.

Kareena Kapoor Khan and Saif Ali Khan

While the public may not remember 'Tashan' best known for Kareena Kapoor Khan's size zero figure, she and Saif Ali Khan would never like to forget this film. It was during the Greece schedule of this film that the two fell in love. Though reports of their affair made news, they remained non-committal to the media. Until they walked the ramp together for her friend designer Manish Malhotra at a fashion event in 2007. That was the first time Saif told the media that they were a couple. Later, he even got her name inked on his left arm. The tied-the-knot on October 16, 2012.

Maanayata and Sanjay Dutt

Married twice before, Sanjay Dutt made known that Maanayata was the woman of his life when he walked in with her at an awards function in January 2007. A few days later, on January 11, 2007, he told a tabloid that he and Maanayata had a secret wedding at his house on November 19, 2006. However, after the news spread like wildfire, he went in denial mode. Their registered marriage in Goa on February 7 a year later became the subject of controversy, as they weren't residents of the state. A couple of days later, they solemnised their marriage vows as per Hindu rites.

Virat Kohli and Anushka Sharma

When the reports of Anushka Sharma and Indian cricketer Virat Kohli being a couple appeared, the two went in overdrive denying the news through their spokespersons. It was Virat who first revealed the relationship when he tweeted after watching her film, "Just watched #NH10 and I am blown away. What a brilliant film and specially an outstanding performance by my love @AnushkaSharma. SO PROUD:)" Even as they continued going steady, they didn't concede their relationship to the media until they walked in haathon-mein-haath at a fashion event July 2015.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane

Rapid Eye Movements
cruise down the Autobahn,
driving dreams of soldiers
slaying the Beast in the East:
seeds hidden in the cuff links
that return home for the victory parade.

The victory parade of the new millennium
is a mirage: desert sand creeps
through the streets of Basra;
spray painted slogans of “Aryan Nation”
are left behind on pock-marked walls.

High level terror alerts
scroll across the Fear o' Dome,
breeding paranoid glances
from commercial-class passengers
while they fly above fenced camps
where centralized secret service agents
watch the unloading of another train.

"Son, do you forget the sacrifices?
Have you lost all your respect?
Okay, it’s possible that the Feds
were influenced by the Purebreds—
a minor repercussion
of maintaining our national security.

It isn’t even about racial purity—
you are all mixed now, anyway.
Whether female, black, jew, or gay,
we must unite together as a nation;
raise its flag with pride,
and fight against a common enemy!
This enemy is trying to disintegrate
the cornerstone of our free society!

Son, can you not see! Not see-notsee-notsea-notsi-notzi-natzi-****-natzi-notzi-notsi-notsea­-notsee-not see!"
_


—cold sweat.

I awaken to remnants of nightmarish images
sifting through my mind:
flocks of carnivorous sheep
with invisible shepherds.

The dream had felt real—
solid, like flesh-out reality.

I rush out of bed,
just to make sure.
From my bedroom window,
I see the neighbour’s Iron Eagle weathervane
goose-stepping towards the west.
A lawnmower growls in the background.

Everything appears normal here
on the corner of 4th Reichstag Blvd.



2016 Neu Berlin Remix, July 13th, 2016
(original version was written on March 29th, 2010)

Dying for The Redoubt

Dyeing for Empire,
In Anchor Mills,
Building the wealth,
Colouring twills.

Weaving the pattern,
Cutting the cloth,
Meeting wee Margaret,
Pledging his troth.

Production line,
Jobs to be learned,
With regular work,
Money is earned.

Marriage is joined,
Making a home,
Child after child,
Seven are born.

Then Serbian guns,
**** Franz the True Heir
And domino treaties,
Fall without care.

Thomas enlists,
September 14,
Despite family of seven,
He dons khaki green

He felt it his duty,
To fight for the King,
Old Georgie was grateful,
Though he knew not his name.

“I, Thomas Cameron,
Do swear I will be,
Faithful and true,
To His Majesty,
King George the Fifth,
His heirs and successors,
According to law.
So help me God.”

With serious intent,
Asunder from Margaret,
One oath was rent,
For an oath to the Monarch.

Till death us do part?
Unbreakable bond,
Thrown over in faith,
In his fellow man.

King George had another,
Under Kitchener’s gaze,
To widow a mother,
He marched to his grave.

Given a number,
To **** off the ***,
Thomas was marked,
Eight-eight-forty-one.

The Highland Light Infantry,
Reached Mesopotamia,
To satisfy Asquith’s
Megalomania.

The soft underbelly,
Of Ottoman Turks,
Would weaken the Germans,
With attacking force.

March by the Tigris,
Dust covered dusk,
On to Dujaila!
Onwards we must!

Surprise was obtained!
The Ottoman fled!
Victory ours!
‘Retreat!’ Kemball said.

‘Retreat? When we’ve won?
Retreat when it’s ours?
“Retreat!” Kemball barked,
“For orders are orders.”

“My Plan must succeed!
The barrage goes in,
H-hour is later,
Then we can win.”

Reoccupied trenches,
Redoubt filled with men,
Pushed by their officers,
At the end of their guns.

“Now we advance!”
“Now we attack!”
But Ottoman guns,
Began shooting back.

What enters the mind?
Of a dutiful man,
When the officer’s whistle,
Gets drowned by the sound,
Of the maelstrom of bullets,
By the thousands of screams,
As man after man,
Sings his own requiem.

Lay he for long?
Did he pass without pain?
Or agony prolonged,
Ere he passed on the plain?



Still he lies there,
A husband and dad,
Dying for Empire,
On the Road to Baghdad.

Lest we forget,
His name lives evermore,
Inscribed on a plaque,
On old Basra stone,

But I’ve yet to meet,
From the day of my birth,
A man who did know,
That he lived on this earth.

And who suffered most?
And what was it for?
This desperate campaign
This war to end wars?

Our Monarch still reigns,
With others in line,
Have we learned our lesson,
For the next time?

This Remembrance Day,
Whatever goes on,
Spare part of your prayer for,
Private Thomas Cameron

We were down in the province of Basra, Iraq
For reasons not precisely clear.
Our objective that day was a Shia run town;
A town named Sari Mi Dyr.
The road to the town was a minefield of sorts
It was *****-trapped with I.E.D.’s.
Still it was the constant sniping that caused
the bulk of our casualties.
The day was as hot as a woman’s scorn
when the last of her tears have dried.
I’ll remember this road to Sari Mi Dyr
On which so many good friends have died.
The day was near spent when command showed some sense;
We heard our choppers draw near.
They aborted the mission and extracted my men
From that hellhole called Sari Mi Dyr.
I’m writing my after action report,
and trying to hold back a tear;
When I think of the good men and women who died
On the road to Sari Mi Dyr.

What now, the loss of limbs in a distant conflagration?
The seeping brains amongst poppy fields?
The myriad nature of violent death, outside of journalistic imagination
A grind of experience on which the lost youth builds.
What now? Within the shredding blasts euphoria
The élan of a soldier, in memoria

Downing drinks in the Stag and Hare
After a tour, ordinary actions reek of tedium
There is, in the conviviality, no rush of adrenalin there
Fermenting trouble establishes a happy medium.
Quarrelling with a man who wears a business suit
Is displaced adventure, smashing his face in is a hoot.

What now? A mate, a favoured friend, dies in the dirt
When whistling a tune, recalling the holiday in Spain, the family,
A shot coursing through his unbuttoned shirt
Deflating his lung, another shattering his knee
When he died, his platoon died too,
Metaphorically; the snipers aim was true.

Bottled up in Basra, aimlessly wandering in Helmand
A shrill event on News at Ten between politics and football,
Another death, another iconic face, the catasphropic end
Of a youthful  life.  What now? The swift end to a morning stroll
Amongst watching villagers in dry breathless mountains
Empty streams and florescent fountains.

In the terracotta dirt my soul leaked away
My final return was like a funeral celebration,
I said nothing anymore. I had nothing left to say.
I’d given my youth to a sniping cynical nation.
What now? It was over for me in a grasping world-
A gooey puddle spread beneath me as my soul evacuated.

Man is cruel, Man is kind,

Far from home, on arid land,
A litter fell on Arab sand,
Mother’s milk did taste so sweet,
She foraged out on hostile streets.
At night as humans sealed their fate,
By leaving each to nature’s fate.

For food and water the ***** did *****,
That pup and her could live in hope,
Each win brought forward sunlit dawn,
The pup awaits her new day morn,
Till one desperate day the padding paws,
Of mother did not return at all.

Weak abandoned, struck with stones,
The starving pup abandoned home,
Cruel sun and humans tortured her,
And she decided she’d had enough,
Of constant hate and absent love.
Allowed by Law of God above.

She crawled with last remaining force,
And whispered with her throat so hoarse.
“Leave me be - beneath this bin,
When it’s over, throw me in.”
A week of cowering, ‘neath the steel,
Giving up each moment to mortal wheel.

Turning closer to the end,
Of pain, despair and suffering.
Whenever humans did come near,
With dehydrated constant fear,
She buried herself deeper down,
Away from hope in hopeless town.

One noise persisted above the rest,
But human kindness cannot expect,
A dog-eared dog in plastic shroud,
To welcome those inhuman crowds,
Whose only act in her short life,
Was taunts and stones and sharpened knives.

Still weakness and despair did come,
And to the gentle hand succumbed,
Unguarded neck - she did not care,
If flash of blade would cease her pain.
Light? Blinding sun! And sweet caress,
And milk? And water? And what is best!

The soothing stroke of calloused hand,
The coolness given as air was fanned,
And vaseline to smother ticks,
Head and shoulders, giving licks,
Of love and thanks to one whose kindness,
Battled through the Basra blindness,

The fate of Warpaws, so far away,
Was followed close by those who cared.
And all of those who did donate,
Were praying for her to be saved.
There’s millions more, but there’s no ban.
On trying to save the one you can.

So Alex, Jen and countless more,
You fought the fight but knew the score.
The chances of surviving past,
Emaciation and then at last,
Damage she’d never overcome.
Still - you tried to save this one.

Think on this now all is done.
Her final week – no baking sun,
Nor plastic melted to her skin,
But care and food and water in,
The faith of he who wrapped her up,
In tattooed arms of endless love.

We were down in the province of Basra, Iraq
For reasons not precisely clear.
Our objective that day was a Shia run town;
A town named Sari Mi Dyr.
The road to the town was a minefield of sorts
It was *****-trapped with I.E.D.’s.
Still it was the constant sniping that caused
the bulk of our casualties.
The day was as hot as a woman’s scorn
when the last of her tears have dried.
I’ll remember this road to Sari Mi Dyr
On which so many good friends have died.
The day was near spent when command showed some sense;
We heard our choppers draw near.
They aborted the mission and extracted my men
From that hellhole called Sari Mi Dyr.
I’m writing my after action report,
and trying to hold back a tear;
When I think of the good men and women who died
On the road to Sari Mi Dyr.

all saints' day is upon us...
Duvali here yet?
i never imagined fireworks going off
on Halloween...
it's as if Catholics exist in Old England
not the New England of
Protestants and ****...

my sin is that i smoked marijuana
in public
and walked around
and instead of nakednessn i found armour
and love and armour...
love of armour
in the darkness i forged one ring
and in the darkness i found
the cloak of invisibility
and in the shadows i roamed
and i swayed and gave encouraging shouts:
OAR! MORE!
OAR! MORE!
TO KIEV!
FOUND USN KIEV!
NA RUS!

find master! find master!
what did you find Ivan?
master! master!
i found your meter!
i found music in poetry!
master! master!
good...          goood E'van...
good Evan:
there be life in this fire water of life?
yessssss... masssster...
good Evan...
i will smooch up to this spirit
and take a sip of her milk:
Bolsheviks of Vistula
and Basra...        Vikings of the black sea
and the mouth of Dniepr...

little tides of a great big sea:
and time as water
and fire no...
fire as space: therefore god had only
once chance to rebel
and he rebelled
and made himself known
leaving ******* artifacts of omni- robes
when in fact he could make contact
with the world at the base of the Pyramids
but would not sit on an Auschwitz's chimney...

blah blah allahahhablahblahallahahhahahahahaha!
i think of god's judgement to make poetry
there:
since only the grey Jew in the hands of the khaki
smear campaign and the nacht black SS mensch...
to no brick in mud Jew:
to your intellectual drain: i will sucker up...
pound for pound
inch of water and a grain of salt...
for your grain of fertile soil...
show me potatoes grown in Israel...
show me tomatoes...

ah! now i remember... it's Thursday night
and i thought it was Friday night...
but i have to go to bed early Friday
wake up at 5am on Saturday
and heard a flock of bothersome Cerberuses...
stagnant ghosts of pets...
cats, dogs, ******* cannaries...
if America has such a problem with Catholics
then i have a problem with
the Protestant Nation of America
not being Enlightened Bilingual by Now!
America should be officially a nation
as best as Switzerland
be a Anglo-Spanish consolidation project...
for the old history:
before empires and wet ***** and hard *****
and the waves...
in our Circle... of drinkers...
St. Peter might have the keys...
but St. Matthew has the bell...
what's a bell? a dzwon?
a bell? what's a bell... the imitation of Adam's head
in a glass...

i carry the Church Bell...
i'm Matthew in Church... but elsewhere
i am known by my better name:
CONRAD...
Slavic blood fused with German principalities...
a Stalin was a Georgian was a Russian:
Russians are sheep:
swayed by barbarian stupidity
to experiment with Hebrews...
while the Germanic now not laugh with
the advent for the dispersing of
the Levant and Babylon...

              a bell is a glass of a top heavy mixer...
a sharpshooter...
4:1 ***** to pepsi...
         sharpshooter...
you fill a glass with loads and loads of icecubes
pour some ***** in
then some pepsi...
sit and meditate in darkness
smoke a quarter of a leftover joint...
that's marijuana and tobacco...
you eat pizza in the dark with mother
you watch the RESIDENT with her...
hmm... protagonist just...
the protagonist... in what we're watching?
did he just crawl out of the t.v.?
are we watching requiem for a dream?

it's like the Sybil in painting surrounding
the decapitated head of John the Baptist...
the bell is a glass with only one
ice-cube in it... carried like a church bell:
mother is falling asleep and i don't want
eggshells and walking on water or air...
so no clamour glitter ching ching...

                     a bell is a special drink...
      not served in bars:
don't worry: you won't be seen with it...
but unlike the non-illuminatory concept
of painting metaphor music and sound:
you won't be a Nietzsche with a candle:
or the Cartesian sexology of van Gogh's chair
and that ******'s table...

a bell is not a candlelight you will take
to the garden of innocence in escaping
the hell of realising how oysters ****
and spiders weave their place
this ******* Darwinistic-humanism! save me god
give me serpents! give me serpents!
i'm scared that i have been infiltrated
by a citadel: lesser creatures...
acne like worms
the hard-knuckle ones with black heads
are not the youths of pure
outpouring of *****-white...
a **** is a death-eater...
i have IBS... the death-eater of my **** might...
oh... no... wait... it's not coming...
i'm just about to finish reading Dune:
i, being the democratic reader and
no sycophant... or psyche surgeon specializing
in one author:
i'm an author myself... i am an authority
unto myself... therefore i could never relinquish
that: for novelty: of being a novelist...
different mirror:
i look into mine and i only see shadows and devils
and two eyes: one blind...

like... what was the reason for me to going to Hawaii
and just: flying over the entire status of United... hem...
states... hem hem...
i came for St. Matthew's Bell...
that one drink you drink in a special place
of a secret abode...
with a mother:
oh: this is not a tourists' attraction:
this is personal: ha ha!
you can't actually replicate this space:
perhaps a tempus similis: a similarity of time:
but as citizen first, individual later:
Mr PResisdent and Canon Commarade...

for the love of State: in the Old Republican Sense
of the word: to Conjure Rome:
for the Love of the State:
Ideology...
               iron fist
feeth with claws...
no nation no tribe no religion...
the state comes first:
the garbagemen, the train drivers...
for the love of the state:
of coherency and ******
and all those whimsical brats
who have the intelligence of gnats...
for the love of people
who one minut walk around
like prized sheep:
who next day could be turned to minced meat...
how i love to stalk
and prey and knot prey on prey in
a crab bucket...
    oh how wonderous you are...
by dearest: i and nobody.