I could drink a pint of Kentish Pip
but not while these bilious toads are massing.
Not while the vast glass boats hunker bigly
on the wavey summer banks. The good glass
beer gleams glibly and I wonder
how the Danube glows
and whether, when it does, it sleeps
or sludges or worms with mud-mad grace.
I am the river and the love, the mirror
in the lake which fatly trans and lates this
shoddy country into gentle plumes,
and average bodies into ripples of dust,
riding under wetly to meet your
gentle dreams of smokey glass.
by Col. Baldwüllz