English manners and habits of thought

make work a trial so everything’s bought

with power and choice, leaves love with no voice,

and stern and well sat from Monday to Friday,

all couth and stye without any tact, they are

pushing with pencil and the ignorant bible, so

that empire remains in the world of the whirlpool,

and feeling is stained while they fall from pub stools,

or typing out words at a desk by the clock

in suits of wool armour, walk two or three blocks,

to be right at all costs, and all the sad while

there’s nothing but bile from the gut of the jouster...

when the fields awaken with leftover grammar,

they yell and they stammer, and flooded

London, and the flaw of slavery, the man who knows

glasses, and a past of brave asses. They were

most stinking rich those poets of iambs, and

England’s great canon is lying in wait, for the nebbish

and the lion of books and fate, to poke at the wounds

that remain unbandaged, until they chew off their feet

and fry up the meat of a language among many that you

and I speak to the bankers and bosses, so much talking

and talking, while down in the street, a widow is watching

a cloud or a cat, and all that, a tit for a tat, a master’s, a

job, so long and boring, the factums of usage, they’re sorry,

those bastards, for being abusive.