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It was a thing with a head like a spud ballIt was a song, the song we were looking forI always have to state to myselfIt has nothing to do with meHe has nothingHe is not me(his vendetta parchment)Floating grey abundanceAgainst my palace of conscience(our hero deeply lovedMoonlit walked past privet and wide-leaved foliage)I’ll tell you of the rats in this worldFawning in place with the faceMen coming between each otherFor the sake of a two-minute urge(it is headless)Worth $5 in londonAnd cursed anon.Our hero, still deeply lovedMoonlit walks past privet and wide leavedIt was no more a net of meshIt was classHe did not blink a lidHe braced his self-imposed gorgeous adult netAnd breezeAnd it was classAnd no no-man’s landEver had this? Their follies are strong liberation

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