With nothing to eat but Kettle Crisps and Spam,
Salt on a salted sea, open always,
I floated along on the wreckage of a Spar,
Partly hydrogenated, like the waves.
What is this shore on which I’m beached? What are
These alte cocker spaniels doing here,
Beyond both bath and bed? I know the sound.
It’s 50s rock n roll up in the trees.
Chestnut is what I think, but I’m not sure.
I hope it lasts. And me. The saints preserve
Berry and Little Richard. Little I
Know of nesting among the spanielled crowd.
Never too late, doo-wop doo-wop, I pray.