Where do they think they’re going

On the by pass

I can imagine

How easy it is to think 

Every night her touch

Will greet you like a fire

In its baronial hearth

The cherries she’s dangling

At her ears will revolve

At precisely this rate

Forever. I resign this day

The words, the wet matches,

And the nude over the cellar

Door. remove my name

From the list of the accused

This image is the real thing.