And thus it came to pass,
That wading in the mean
Sharpened trickle of the dreamy stream,
I felled the wall
And disclosed all,
To a complete and utter arse.
And yet-
AND YET-
Perhaps all is not the whole.
Could there still be some clumps of soul,
Still clinging like the smell of mould?
I doubt it not,
For there is one
And only one
Who really should be shot.
A tender heart-shaped ticking clock,
A time-bomb waiting for the shock
Of reality;
That is to say, me.
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