the suited journeyman sits
and mournfully fits
his penchant for the mordaunt
into the fondant
of a store-bought cake

oh arise and awake!
the artisan who baked
mistaking
one poet for another
come see how the wish-less suffer
slightly asthmatic without their puffer

Sovegna vos al temps de mon dolor
I requested icing of a different colour

and now my drunken suitors recline
on Ercol chairs of meagre design
while doomy, Bloomsbury shadows climb
the bunting-strewn colonnades of ancient time
and the candles blaze low
as I sit here quietly and wheezily blow
(chain-smoking Dunhills doesn’t help I know)
but look here dammit
I’ve just about had it
today’s not the day one kicks the habit
not with these reprobates scattered around
and this bullshit card from Ezra Pound