Singing in Thongs


He’ meant to go to bed at eight, this child

so that he’ll not fall victim

to stray bullets

from  teevee shots meant for  the benighted.

And this is eight, nightingale morning’s eight

and the teevee screens are agog

with an armada of rotating bots

claiming descent from  singing lips,

some bare

some clad in pretence thongs

a lobe to the right

a lobe to the left

and  the holidaying child is in the dock

facing a booby-traps of questions

from the female anatomy,

not on it.


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