Foul Utopian Blues

At night, when bricks are wet
and cast iron lamp posts glisten
with rough pebbles of cold rain and
when the laughter from Ernst’s Café
is out of reach, when bored with
flame broiled pancakes and
the walk from the Jax Brewery to
the shelter of Janet’s screwery
is just too damn far away;
or when Julia is gone peculiar and
I have a discompunction to kneel
and pray on uptown Magazine, to
come clean before the Gaberdine Angus,
Truth Verite asks whether the
naberjockey is bligh and driffle,
or a one headed, too dreaded piffle.