Sailing away on a luxury liner
Packing your bags and eloping to China
Building a castle and digging a moat
These are all things you can't do with a goat

Any assortment of wrapping and bagging
Over the fireplace or under the lagging
In your pyjamas, in Tupperware boxes
These are all places that irritate foxes

An onion, a carrot, a plantain or mango
A tikka kebab and a bottle of tango
A handful of pencils, a flaming baton
These are all things that won't fit in a swan

Pet shops and grocers and stationary suppliers
Takeaways, rivers and all kinds of fires
P&O; cruises, kebab shops, IKEA
These are all places I'm not allowed near...

**

The French
peasant monk,
head bowed,
walks

through the cloister,
carrying two buckets
full with milk
from the farm,

his eyes full
of earth's colour.
I wash
in the cold water

from the icy jug,
the cloister seen
from the window above;
I feel her legs

about me,
bringing me in;
there
in the waters

of her passion,
I nearly drown.
The old monk
allows the bell rope

to rise
through his hands,
then
pulls it down.

She likes an archaeologist
cos he does it in the dirt

and the older she gets
the more he likes to flirt

She likes the way he smells
in a faded work shirt

hard and lean
but not mean
just a little bit assertive

He still let's her roll
her own cigarettes

and handles her gently
like a gold statuette

while they dance
with the shadows
down low

you know.