It was a thing with a head like a spud ball

It was a song, the song we were looking for







I always have to state to myself

It has nothing to do with me

He has nothing

He is not me

(His vendetta parchment)







Floating grey abundance

Against my palace of conscience

(Our hero deeply loved

Moonlit walked past privet and wide-leaved foliage)







I'll tell you of the rats in this world

Fawning in place with The Face

Men coming between each other

For the sake of a two-minute urge

(It is headless)

Worth $5 in London

And cursed anon.

Our hero, still deeply loved

Moonlit walks past privet and wide leaved

It was no more a net of mesh

It was class

He did not blink a lid

He braced his self-imposed gorgeous adult net

And breeze

And it was class

And no no-man's land

Ever had this?



Their follies are strong liberation