Grimbeau

Smart,

smug Smart Alec sat,

soiled by ibex ordure,

popping vindicates

at established fates.

Marquis de Plonqueur

Mozart Violet echoes

conch in Sea.

All is stop.

No ghosts,

(One did look!)

The door!

Is that a dog?

Would it, could it be?

Back from killing conies,

flushing out fat farm rats,

haring up hills,

racing gannets on the strand.

Yes, don’t be silly,

it was here,

it was her.

Fresh as the icy, blue zephyr,

that bid me: ‘How are Ye?’