Has Earth to show anything more uncouth?
Dulled to a greyness now, the underpants
cling limply to his calamari cleft:
their seventh week as barnacle to youth,
a scowling spitting verminous pissant
of all the social niceties bereft.
Fair maiden, pharmaceutically fatigued
carps like a slave in his triumphant ear;
joins, renegade, the world against him leagued.
Where is the valium of yesteryear?
Not to be had at 6am, for sure.
Watch from your window as the forms recede.
A brief crescendo. Someone slams a door.
You lie upon your bed and try to read.