I am in love with a golliwog,
An obsolete wog who liked to drink grog and that’s why he’s no longer at breakfast.
But sadly, that is not the subject de jour
So forgive me and come with me on a different tour.

If I could rip open my scalp and knead my brain and then bake it
Season it with some rosemary and then spit it out when it's done.
If I could suck up the motorways, factories, robots and all the WMD's,
If I could sit and realise that the words that I write are just words -
Their links may please some and then again they may not.

I want to send you my lips, my heart and my soul,
I want to make you see all that's black within.

Oh lets not be so pernickety!
I like the possibility of serendipity,
So stay and I may blow some cool breath to warm your face,
To rouge-rape your peach I admired so much yesteryear.

Is it as Kipling said?
Struggle, befuddled and live life in a constant muddle?
Is this what I must really expect
Then, for a 21st birthday cake?

But what of all the adjectives,
The words that describe and make clear? (Ha! Ha! You? Who is so un-clear).

-I'm afraid that none of this really amounts to much,
-I fear my face has grown lines.

So, let us finish tidily:
‘I’ am maternally internally pertinently eternal.

Ta da!