Madame Sosostris, the leaves are running away
With the springtime wind, into the University café,
Mr. Scogan, what prophesy of apocalypse do you bring?
The grass smells oh! so fresh and green
Budded with cupidity and sin,
In shadow behind the lamp,
Tent pitched beneath a Portabello mushroom,
On your ear lobe is that an earring?
These mushrooms grow in the air from Hamadan,
While you examine a cemented palm print
On the footwalk of Stars embedded in archaic senility,
What, after all, is your Machiavellian plan?
Eye huge behind the magnifying glass,
Sinister, these fates of March,
‘Perhaps there is something in it after all’
Otherwise, why have the cacti mutated so?
We cannot help but oversimplify,
Decimation follows the metric system,
Is uniform, total and immediate,
Decimation does in turn itself mutate.
Ashes radiate ashes to create a wasteland
Shrunken ovaries, ululating uterus
As rheumy eyes keep shrewd watch for the Holy Grail
On a spec of dust in the universe.