Give me a groat and I’ll emote on hope and faith, and craic
Should you not meet me on the way, you can on the way back
From hollow land and silly land, to form and sound, and black
The song you hear will be our own and never will shirk or jack
Too good to be true, too simple to work, you say inside your head
That tapping on the roof you hear, is rhapsody robbing the lead.
Apollinaire wore underwear
de la Mare wore trunks
Ogden Nash liked ganache
Ezra Pound fed Monks
The Vulture Man’s
a shallow fellow,
his words well said,
his thoughts chrome yellow
His wife,
his daughter
On the game.
Flooded delta:
Monsoon rain.
Eye catches Ad:
‘Give us your whores,
Your puddled masses’
Should have gone to
Evening classes.
Where’s
a place for us?
There’s
no place for us,
Nowhere
no place for us.
Take my hand
Sit and stare
Take my hand
Share your fear
We’ll find
a new way of dying
We’ll find
a new way of crying
No time,
No hope
No rhyme.
When I once sat upon a bench
I felt that I was almost French
The caliph & the caliphate
Arranged a secret dinner date
Near Toulon, in the south of France
Called ‘Honi soi qui mal y pense.’
Whoops!
A post
Apocalypse
Calypso
Grimbeau 