Few bards & flunkies did once
tell of an old frying pan worked for London transport
till european mind held up his stagecoach…
We drove as if we had a puncture;
Dad trying not to blink, that man’s eyes
stuck in my head, which is where the story clunks ,
and any attempt to energize this fable
with something aromatic whiff of the nature
of articulacy and inheritance,
since he can well eulogize his own
excuses, you your own accommodation.
As it stands now if you still insist on resonance –
I’d swing for him, and every other cunt
happy to let my Django know his station,
which probably includes yourself. To be blunt.