Everything’s satire, parody, an entire blancmange

Of genres, letting-go of moorings slipping free, adrift,

Charts off the radar, dances in the hold, recruited crews

Guffawing on

All troth and fealty neatly being drowned like kittens

We dig out our exposures. empty earths from underneath

Our feet; might upright have been stood against a day

The clarions bear down bidding sounding hectic clangour.

Convenience has its comforts

At once a wail goes up, a wall comes down, and in goes armour

Boots, missiles, federations occupation-bound,

Shall we not want for character against the evil day?

Everyone’s Mr Wiseacre, Ms. Politic,

All fireproof. Hoodwinkable? Not likely!

Super secure in bastions where the cute astute position

Professes grasp of situations, armchair pennyworths

Are spent and given freely

Fine clever-clever premises trace gratis underneath

A level faithful narrative, then pitch, to mine a fissure

So winning pretty measures old men hacked out aeons gone

As if new works

Are blanked by an Alcibiades or Keats’ Philomel

(A mention by intention to deflect a light attention)

Shafts dark, no light,

It’s useless to look out old history’s analogues

As offerings they yet ask

Those surlily as sure as Job’s assured friends

Is something rotten in the state of Denmark?

Uncompromising pages playing being kings and queens

Fold hands in spades

Raise enough dirts, and lo, abrade wit’s spinning ring

Wearworn with turmoils, crass humour pares its thinning rim

Glass paper tongues make rasp cast outwards livid flecks

Cuts from a single splinter, comes the fatal pass

To pass

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