By Luton's tracks a sewage farm
has purple sludge, supporting
scattered islands of bright green
something -- it's too far to see what
hardy flora feast upon
that turgid English shite.
The raking arm that very slowly
stirs the tank and speeds the
cleansing process of corruption
must have stuck. Perhaps
whoever sticks such things arranged
an allegory of politics.
But probably not. As a general rule,
words stand for ideas, but
greenery stands for sunlight,
machinery can always be trusted
to break down, and shite is just
shite. The world simply is.
Yet, in fact, the bursting green
of greed and get and gimme
rides atop this festering state,
and something's badly stuck.
At least this wretched English food
suits green stuff, if not me.
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