My Smothered Haggis
Cut away, cut away
Says the song
But I never listen to what anyone says
On the field-phone, no,
Nor by the speckled beacon bright
I listen only to my inner voice
As it strikes a gong
And fans me face at the window
Laugh aloud, laugh aloud
Chimes the ant
In the way of a man dressed in shrouds
Of the field-fare's plume
Bedecked with straw and feathers;
It could not recant
The prose works of Joyce,
Or bust me guts in the cellar
Peck away, peck away
Crow the birds
Some of them clockwork, others unreal
In the way of a dream;
Purblind, with lines or circles
They do not despise
A tangent or two
Or the novels of Samuel Becquet.
Contributors: | Surlaw, Apsley, P. |
Poem finished: | 6th March 2000. |