The World Won’t Miss You for a While

Lie down with me you hill walkers and rest,

Untie your boots and separate your toes,

Ignore the compass wavering north/north west.

Quit trailing through the overcrowded streets

With tinkling bells, you child of Hare Krishna.

Hush.

Unfurl your saffron robes.

How sweet the grass.

And you, photographer of wars,

lie down and cap your lens.

Ambassador, take off your dancing shoes.

There are no laws by which you must abide oh blushing boy

with Stanley knife,

No county magistrates are waiting here to dress you down:

Employ yourself with cutting up these wild flowers

as you like.

Sous chef with baby guinea fowl to stuff,

Surveillance officer with hours to fill,

And anorexic weighing up a meal,

Lie down.

Girl riding to an interview,

turn back before they force you to reveal

your hidey holes.

Apprentice pharmacist, leave carousels of second generation

happy pills.

The long term sad.

And journalist with dreams, forget the man from Lancashire

Who lost his tongue, the youth who found it,

Kept it quivering in a matchbox for a year.