Sister Christine was standing in the shower in her hotel in Assisi She was looking at her feet Which were covered by the retained water

Lived in a sleepy town By the sea It was called Pointers But Potters by you and me   They frequently painted in the plain

I admire and desire The freedom of your light flight Small bird Sliding hiding riding gliding You skim the wave tops Of the low bow

I am my own imposter My sister’s brother Was badly hurt In my mother’s car  

Daphne swept seven sweet sweep clouds From the morning sky And on the radio A hero of mine Sang a song sadly About malt whiskey

Rudi and Gerti went sailing But Heinrich Muller did not As he had broken his leg After falling from a horse It was a fine

The poetry field is green at present Which surprises me as we are in November I wonder how long this renaissance will last  

Tom Tyger slept in a white room On a red bed With a blue pillow Each night he dreamt of Friendly flags flowing freely In

I suppose you could call me socially illiterate fuck Then do arsehole Enjoy your trip into the gutter Which you call home   But does

When I was very small I met an engine driver Who was very tall He asked if I was a driver to be Who would