So, as I’m pouring this Plymouth gin,
I’ll tell you just how the roof fell in.
We left New York when it wept us back
into the nausea of its NASDAQ.

Easy for apples to get pie-eyed
and lie down for good on their supply side.
“May there be no moaning of the bar…”
“Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit.”

Don’t lose your face among the facts:
we’re in the bagel’s empty eye.
So fix the fix and fax the fax –
we’re just ano-
ther bird
that’s un-
learned how
to fly.

So let us finish this Plymouth gin
and raise the last glass to Ho Chi Minh,
without entirely knowing why –
maybe that’s something to do with why…

We lose your face among the facts,
within the bagel’s empty eye.
The fix is in the Pentatax.
The violence happens
so fast
it’s past
before
it’s light.

About the terrible weather
the Geiger counters mutter
in delphinese.