corporate capitalism lets
its mask slip – the false quiddities
of politics and prose march on and on
and on
an I gives thum thir ale an thur meat pies
un I fears me the time is blunt wit
and cold heart will stir us to murther
an cruel deeds
it’s so easy not to care
with wine and with chicken and with wenches
but now he’s dead!
and there are no ways the ululating
mothers can bring him back – he’s gone, he’s gone,
and only the numbness remains
