In My Spacecraft of Sullen Farts
In my spacecraft or sullen fart
Exercised in the still night from pants
When only this moon pie rages
And the lovers lie abed (flapping covers)
With all their beans (and pencils) in their arms,
I labour by slinging light (and thumbs)
Not for ambition or chili
Or the strut and trade of phones
On the ivory stages, huge tusks upon which
actors stand!
But for the common or minimum wages
Of their most secret heart, still underpaid.
Not for the proud man apart with the winds
From the raging moon pie I write
On these spindrift pages of wind
Nor for the towering dead pongue
With its nightingales and tadpoles of brass horns
But for the lovers, their arms of tadpoles
Round the griefs of the ages, round fond sages (i guess)
Who pay no praise or wages (or farts)
Nor heed my craft or art (its reek isn't so bad to me)!
dead drunk on a "stool"
literally.
