For Dianne
Drunks in the courtyard, dung and driftwood
floating down the Thames, and some
poor swine sweats over his accounts.
The error’s his. Standing on the bridge
in lamplight, the stars barricaded
by a wall of clouds, he knows
what chance he has. And the do-gooder
who pulls him down is also without a penny,
doomed to room in a pauper’s grave.
Reader, this body’s a shapeless mass,
made to fall apart. You don’t want to hear
about the boy with so much promise,
who marries to improve himself. The old grouch
who gives away all his money
with a smile. Dear reader, the happy ending’s
this: a little girl in curls
marries, gives herself up, is kept
to death and doesn’t get a single kiss.
So wipe off that smirk. Your rich uncle’s coming
to dinner, he’s left you his precious disease.
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