In a chair with three legs
a brain-damaged man sits upright.
He drinks peppermint vanilla latté,
he talks across the Atlantic
to Eurasian-collared doves.
We ride the tube, yo?
We double decker.
If Denmark doesn’t brew it,
we’ll D-I-Y it right here.
Scotch is for men with hairy tongues.
I fill the room as I sleep.
I leave my dreams under the pillow
for the green fairy/demon/hillbilly.
If it rains we’ll wear coats and boots.
If arraigned, we’ll lie in state abroad.
Songs play as we ready for darts.
Is that Big Ben or the Pont des Arts?
Ten men are downed by machine gun reaction.
They only wanted a spot in the corner, with
Gatsby hats thrown on like blankets.
We lodge we travel.
We eat black pudding and haggis.
I don’t remember it all, don’t need to.
We’ll trade collar stays
when the pound hits two-twenty.