Fly in the face, say please
to the debaser, ask
about the daily special,
a ripe crumble of uncontrolled
substances that take the starch
out of British standards flying
the runway filled
with crashed planes —
what good are supermassive black holes
if you can't clean the republic
pull faces back
before the court jesters
when they'd perform no circus
act for the liver spots
growing on the Union Jack:
pin-up princes
pledging their allegiance to pop,
the pomp and pageantry
dusting us over
with the cobwebs of crowns
that reign with repetition
in the throat: bowing words
we'll say of a weekend
when Hanover assumes our voice.