A blue cop picks, and plucks another, swooning from the store with an armful and a sprig—so bom go the blooms. Bom!—so speaks the firework in the sky. Bewildering... Bom! Bom!—say the fires in the sky. There’ll be no buildings, in time, but are flowed away in a caskful of liquor... No bridges, in time, but are swept down by an axed cask of liquor.
A blue cop waddling on with an armful of blooms. The flame shaking its mane, watching the lot and the cloister-yards alike, with constant white balls in place for eyes.
-2002
