a saucer full of cabriolet,
dream-song of psalm,
or am I mad already?
I can see the lips of patients
in the suburbs with their wrists
bandaged in a crock of souvenir\'s.
it was the very last train to Cornwall
when I last saw pickled gherkins in a bag.
they had no teeth, no cloth of sweet perfume
tho am told they came through loves own porcelain.
our skulls embraced the wish-bone of it\'s smell
to a higher noon of posing-pouch with gel.
oh what the hell!
we only live once.
buy me a red stick of rock
and I\'ll lend you my copy of Radio Times.
my record is stuck on the opening page
and I\'m all out of needles and pins.