White linen suit, frayed fingers in your making
Can you turn me into a poet
Can you take me to Bohemia
How many wages were spilt before being distilled
Before you were ready; integrated
Steadily to be taken off the peg
The past province of aristocracy
Lost city of the intellect
Retailer, wholesaler, packer
Shipper, advertisement executive, also maybe
The marketing manager too; anyone but you then
Who had the time to take the money
For your intricate handiwork; your lyric
Your chorus, your woven weft
Bereft of any of their bluster
Turn instead to the isthmus
Or depart for the black hole
Of singular isolated pain
There we may find only our own fortune
Which may, or may not sustain
If even for a short while
Until tea perhaps, or even up to a late supper
Before eventually we step out
Bled dry for the better dressed
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