Whisky is the flame he warms at
while his hemisphere tilts from shadow to sun to shadow.
A tongue of song for his friends
(who are corn to its scythe as quickly!)
sings now by a cold hearth.
mocker of the church: ' all its baubles and beads... its opiates...'
dancing now to silent music.
Marx, his hero, would shy away from such a sight:
a ‘party-member’ who, with nails of gold,
has manufactured a crucifix.
tin horn blues -
a drunk vomits
into the litter-bin