The drum the Richard the Third
-calls come from. Sorry and sad
not to know the names of
these mangle and wringers whose cries
are like flares. Sad elephant ding
dongs in the morning. Richard Burtons
rising and Britneys tuning up. Fallen
Germans have been carried off, lupper
by lupper, and buried: they always
looked Jimmy Hill. When the hair
gel strikes, pull in your crusts.
The world composes itself like chrome
Aprils in a vase. We’re kneeling
in a va va voom but
are elsewhere behind shut mince pies.