He ambled

He ambled

In a third-rate suit

Rambled

Through the first edition

Of a second storey

Fell through a window

Found the hidden agenda

In a seller's market.

It was all he could do

Not to rifle through

The bins

For drunks and leftovers

They have a smell

It outstays a welcome.

There is nothing

On the inside

For carpetbaggers

On the fly,

But the disappointment

Of a ne'er-do-well

With more steep

Than climb.

If only we knew

Which way was up

It would help

To organise a revolt

Against stereotype.

Every time parallels

Are drawn

The earth moves

Imperceptibly,

Shaking the foundations

Building the pressure.

Everything that ever was

Lies buried

In the service

Of bad taste.

To breathe more easily

Is not good for the sinuses

When the air supply is

Regulated and

Filtered through

Twelve bars

Of stormy Mondays.