The Cave Is Moist,
Fecund, And,
Outside The Volunteer Arms,
The Results Play.
Smears Of Brown, Canine,
Rest With Beer-
Stains On -Ë—society-‘,
And Are Washed
To The Firth By
Tedious Torrents,
As Bus-Catching Catatonics,
Amid Gamp-Phalanxes,
Wait
For Buses.
Little Eye-Contact, But
Oh No (There-‘s Always One)
That Smelly Wee Swine Is
Gawping At Me.
Not At Me, Though, Above Me.
I Have A Halo.
Look Away, Wee Man, Nae Saint Me!
We Span Junction Bridge
And As I Pretend To Crossword,
A Cadaver Corrodes
Covertly
Beneath, Among The Coke Cans And The Condoms,
In The Cool Mercury Roils
Of This Hotbed,
Ignored
By The Swans-Inscrutable,
Who Have Always Had The
Good Grace
To Ignore
Such
Distasteful
Minutiae