No, how do you know they no longer seek what
Their hearts desire those girls at Smiller’s Bar?
Note how they sneer at your dawns & bonfires now
That you have accidentalized* their beloved
Combatants. And having known so many nebulous
Fleas, why shouldn’t they claim vague memories
Of your so-called liberation struggle? And in this
Feminist age, grant them revised metaphors, man!
You can’t be so sure your buttercups gather here
Only to scent down the few rebels their masters
(Mindless-brittle-neck-hackers!) still invent
For them and what nonsense, what paranoia!
It’s true at counters the masters lurch to your
Side, offering you round after round of beer,
Setting up their abandoned adulteresses for you
To settle on and enjoying their sadistic stories:
‘That rhinoceros you gunned down scratching
His livid wounds on pepperwood, wasn’t it fun
How he collapsed, twitching’, they laugh hoping
You can join in the joke & be properly convicted!
But you must concede, after you accidentalized
Their Anenenjis, the nuance of your classical
Butterfly today slips away & even you don’t know
Who the real master is when, from her creased
Victorian frock, she rectifies your change without
Blush & pontificates about inflation having
Trebled her price. Indeed why should anybody’s
Bastard at home eat grass? So, give the girls
A break, let the coloured bulbs, drunken moths
& robot drums choke the bay; who said freedom’s
Not a bifurcated pig? Revisiting Smiller’s Bar
May be the beginning of your true liberation!
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