This is some kind of perfection, not to be sneezed at,
These sauntering days command the sky’s respect;
My mind goes like a stray dog down the street,
Cocking his leg against a lamp-post,
Lord of all he surveys.
Who needs a nametag or a collar?
Such things only get in the way.
Laugh in the face of uncertainty,
Laugh to yourself in the supermarket car park;
Admit nothing, deny nothing,
Play your cards as they come.
Whose turn is it now to suffer?
Whose day of reckoning has just strolled in the door?
Chaos has its consolations,
Its mystery prizes to bestow.
Read, lucky winner, the number on your ticket;
Polish your shoes for the big occasion;
Tonight you will dance with the Carnival Queen
In an empty ballroom walled with mirrors.
No comments:
Post a Comment