Haven't I been working in that joint
Heavy with dust, grime and impaled through sunshine
Riddled by a dwindling sense of devotion
After all enslaved labour wasn't meant to be
Cherished, at all
Out of the Newfoundland gang of kittens
Only three have thus survived
And their mother shines in absence
As they sulk underneath a stack of second hand
Tyres
Obligations make me question my sleep
The forensic investigation of a local crime indicates
Much more than what barely reaches the eye
In cavort, in cahoots
Having told her I would be taking care of my own
Business
Stood, intercepted, acquired, delivered
Declined an ingenious offer to a party unwanted
Rolled my tongue over a marooned fold of meat
Made friends with a mosquito and slept in my keep
"You write with your hand, but it's Rimbaud's arm."
