In the scullery of the cub-hut my clarinet falls
Into a sack of flour - a flurry of pins
Squashed into the leather handle
A crescent moon of sleeping fig-wasps
Drizzling my fingers with The Magic Sponge
Dad says 'we'll probably have to chop them off'
He collapses like a canvas tent on the floodlit astroturf
Rent by a fibula guide-rod poking a hole through his shin
There are teardrops in his moustache
Charging a flute of champagne
Down the aisle and out for a throw-in
A St. John's ambulance careers between the sugary pillars of the wedding cake
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Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth.
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