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Poem	whirligig twister dancer prancer st vitus’s quester chancer romancer the inkman cometh from that nether world where dream and coincidence are darkly furled accident rubbed him into puzzling light he is what he isn’t (he’s the geist of zeit) whirligig twister dancer prancer st vitus’s quester chancer romancer he cannot move but he never stops particle-wave (ask the science-cops) all creation swirls from his restless frame he isn’t what he is that’s the inkman’s game whirligig twister dancer prancer st vitus’s quester chancer romancer (ii) ninkam poop so this the inkman’s alter ego the fool who shadows us wherever we go he can’t get right a thing in the light desperately wants to be our amigo but he knows us knows us knows us from the inside out each beat of the heart (he’s in with a shout) sets him dancing (call it prancing) he’s what the dreamt world’s all about and we’re just à la carte à la carte to him his à la carte (his me and you) his raison d’etre such a fool – we can’t be- lieve he’s a manifest of our mutual quest to live to the full fate’s strange decree etcetera etcetera etcetera – wow – this idiot poop the inkman bringeth (proof he’s what he’s not) is the sum already of our going steady (on even keel – patiently - why not) and why not he singeth danceth danceth our lot (our ninkam poop) our nobility of folly (our life’s amazing scoop) the making of joy from almost lost alloy an astonishing loop the loop by two half off their trolley how jolly
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