Never try to gaze into the eyes of a fireman's son.

Never try to gaze into,
the eyes of a fireman's son, says a jolly man
on the radio, for you, badly prepared as you are,
will not be able to withstand his fierce sunsets.

Outside it's raining tennis balls. Outside it's raining pages
from a long report on the Spanish Inquisition. Outside
it's raining.

In order to please you
I hatch beautiful right-angled triangles out of mature yellow squares,
but most, unfortunatly, turn out to be terribly sticky.

You wanna, don't you, look inside my cupboards.
I would let you, you suddenly say,
but you can't sing.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, you murmour,
as though trapped inside an average sized stone.

My father taught me, you continue, as a useful social skill,
to projectile-vomit insults, like volcanic fire from bicycle pumps.

What I need is the right guy, in the right place, at the right time.

Attempting to distract you, watch out for those falling flickering futons, I say,
guiding you gently around the newly erected barriers. But you,
stubbournly independent as usual,
pull roughly away;

continue to cast wicked spells at the passing ice floes!

Have You Seen Captain Planet's Fake Rubber Hands.

He wore a green hat, red
shoes, red shirt; said his wife
looked best, with her hair on fire.
Called himself a Rediculist. Only read
the cover of books: The Man Who
Gave his Coat to a Goat: Ten Good Ways
to Die. Take the HE out of HEART
he'd say, and you've got ART.
Pinned to his lapel a small button that read:
Sometimes a Copy is as good as
The Real Thing. Said, he
looked a lot more like himself
when he was twenty three.