all bust up from the Nineteensixties
is singing Frog went a-courtin’
outside Poundland. 17 starlings fly
down his throat and then eat him
from the inside, bursting out with
their tiny knives from the worn out skin
into the very hygienic light. They leave
the remains behind, spread out
on the pavement; here’s what you call
a stinking antidote to History. His dog,
licking the pallid lungs, stops for a moment,
turns to me and says, Are those his wings?
I say, Who cares? Where do you think
he’s going to fly to now?