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(22 September / London)

Poems of Jonathan ROBIN

Hats Felt

'Wolfe's mad as a hatter! ' said French to their King,
'He should bite my commanders' the latter replied,
'For when victory smiles one says: 'Where is thy sting? '
to Death as its sickle appears by bedside.'

Felt hats from the Tyrol to far Timbuctoo
adorned with fine feather from cockatoo friend
somewhat t[a]inted and toxic rots hairs that fall through
harsh headaches ensue sending souls round the bend.

[Hata Bildir]