i had a whisper of a dream
that i was a priestess *****
and ritual ******* was the norm
so i got on my knees
before the swirling painted legs
of the Indigo Man, whose brutality
was unmatched, whose lust was unrecorded
save for the whispers from crackling fires
of peat and smoking women,
soot covered brows and hairy legs
banded torcs encircling throats
used as holy receptacles for the children
they could not afford to bring life to
in the bleak nights under vast stars above
marsh lights and howling screams
from invaders as fierce as monthly aches
and menfolk's savagery against nature
among the savagery of the wind and sea.

"It's called terracotta”  Professor ‘igginz said,
‘Coz ‘e’s one of ‘em with big words in iz ‘ead
And we're in Tuscony on a cultural trip…
(Where they paint the buildings the colour of brick)
…To look at pictures and culture and stuff,
But after an ‘our
I've ‘ad enough,
‘Coz it's all great big churchez and great big tombz
And great big museumz with too many roomz.


And then I see this bloke looking at me
And ‘ere's me thinking “Who can ‘e be?”
‘Coz ‘e's tall and ‘andsome,
(While I'm short but not fat)
And ‘e’s stood on a plinth with wingz on ‘iz ‘at. 


And ‘e's got this lovely face
And a nice straight nose,
But mostly I'm thinking
‘E's not wearing clothes.
Just beautiful calves
Below gorgeous thighs
And everything's… You know…
Just the right size.


Then down ‘e drops, 
That ‘at gets a tip,
A nice little bow,
Them ‘eels givz a click.
And he makes me laugh
‘Coz ‘e's a posh sort of chap,
And ‘e torcs like this
While I talkz like tha’.


So I asks him - you know -   If he'll show me round, 
Then he pickz me up right off the ground!
And out of the Uffizi and up into the sky
And like buzzard with a bunny
Off we fly...
To this great big church
With a great big dome
And we land on the roof
Which ‘e sez
Iz ‘iz ‘ome.


And we sit there just chatting looking down at the crowds,
Then we lie back and paint faces on clouds,
And we watch the sun sinking like a great big ball,
And then just lie there saying nothing at all,
Til ‘e he turnz and whispers as the sky runs to black
And next thing I've got me legs round ‘iz back.


‘Coz ‘e's proper ‘andsome
With nice airs and graces
What  ‘igginz would call
“Prosopopoeia ekphrasis”.