I found a corner in a First Class compartment and made myself comfortable. That is to say I let down my guard and stretched out my legs in the most casual manner in the world.
And under my lobster skull I juggled my World Champion's orbs
So as to survey the crowd, assembled almost by accident,
When I spotted a gent, an apothecary or a solicitor,
Who smelled like a janitor or a pelican.
Ha! Ha! This I liked: his proclivities
Revealed themselves much as they do with a herbivore,
While his head reminded me quite strongly
Of the time when I used to curl up for the night beside my dumb-bell,
And, I'm bound to say, with a sort of real adoration
Not to mention something difficult to explain
In the presence of the polished egoist
Whom I bottled with my Atlantic eyes,
I worshipped his forearm as a sacred dish
And compared his stomach to the attraction of shops.
Tickets, please!
"Property-owners are termites," I exclaimed suddenly.
And while allophagous
In the glow of your loving,
Our tangled
Waistcoats entwine,
My darling cauliflower,
I follow your vast range
And your colours,
And in an amalgam
Of Jack Johnson, elephant-seal and wardrobe
Our turds glisten like watered silk.
Fuck-fuck! The beat
Of the breeches
In the final
Abdominal
Spasm!
I'll say it again at the risk of getting myself locked up: by the beard of the nanny-goat and the whiskers of the she-rat, property-owners are ter-mites!
