Michael Schumacher greatest of the drivers still though the greatest fell
              swathe through the fjords ecstatic with a foreign ardour / oh but how they closed him down!
They poisoned his meat his mechanics made raise their hands against him,  ungrateful peasants
        ah the spear marks on his coke ravaged body nicely taut
                                                                 his corse white on a bier on Monte Carlo's immortal beach
damsels wrap his mortal remains in corporate bounds    what incandescent merchandise
                                                brakes the chains of temporal bondage   he drives, yet father of his art
but in my inner ear I still hear the sound of his car the click click of his top    heart valve stopping
in the lure lock of the high necked demon that shot the waves
                            the open cockpit the cage that hits the American wing, the native American,
                            virgin, the heavy road
                        that broke o'er the empty wagon
the wind swept autumn crossing   even the Buddhist monks cant keep up,   here is the manmachine led to bonds
the cluck cluck  of the mule      the disinterred corpse of Harold on the pillion
on his crest the dragon of plantagenet camp      waiting,    the sand bar crossed in drag,
                         1st amongst the national dead         retrod Saxon, 'turned from Barking
  guy in the fire pit lane, lost his soul as an owl                 shamed, but doves that sing —
                     ooo my chevalier / left at the lights

buried somewhere out by Essex County Country Club under the ash-builders merchants    high on dram
a perfect instant — the moment the sun rise on fuzzy porcelain locks
              deserter stragglers struggle with their change,  jump leads direct to the head of the true English king
while one confers status on the usurper that hourly accretes to  the death of a man such as Schuey
 ante-diluvean brute   sent him speeding into the tunnel       the booking hall  —

                     oh, our Benedictus    reduced to product endorsements
      (not a word of criticism mind) he made the rules,    but where is his trophies, ribands now
                six stations who threw away the prince   test book principal or slave     you decide
                                                                                                  dial 9 for history