[A high hill of city hall stairs – a last drag is dragged, subsequently
The smouldering bu*t is trampled by high-heeled hoofs]
"So you give them some syllables, like vegetables,
Neatly planted, shoots in furrows – flowers in critical condition;
You give them a word, maybe two - they'll want a clause
Hell you give them a nice one, with maybe a subcause,
If it pleases the heads, their voices grow back
Only more plentiful, so, oh boy, don't you take no short
Cuts - you give them a page, just to be safe
But then they'll want a chapter, parts, a book,
Don't blink - they'll take your arms,
And fling ‘em at will at walls in the hope you tag along,
but no –just tags, in black, in blue, in cheerless rags
They'll pluck your feathers, all of them plus one,
They'll gush gold down your throat and slice your stomach open,
and they say they can explain they just wanted your golden eyes –
That was all