Under Filch-Wood (For Edward Lear)

and in the willy nilly posthorn's dark
and sizzling damp
from that tea-coastal mist
of pygmy kitchens

spitting cat kettles throb

to hop out on the range,
the veld, the urgo
arrange


its rhymechancial tawny eyelids fast
from the spring sun, the sealed one

whose drugged draggled hens crawl
up again
into the coat
whose arms come down
from shoulders with twin, and
apposite looking heads

their whimper and snivel
for the lickerish
bog-black ink
whose pot like a sink

the landscape shi
for murmuring
hekastakatholoulou, and

SHOP AT MOG'S!!!