Kneeling now, fingers spread close to
The flames (a privileged position),
I raise the spectre of the TRG,
An unknown force in this world
Of make-believers without acrimony
Or intrusive acronyms.
Unwelcome guests, like waking dreams,
Come knocking at your door where a
Magic combination of numbers,
Not words, must guard the
Still silent rows of Penguins,
Picadors and UQPs.
Natural law, like good grammar,
Governs here, arresting anarchy or any
Lapse in taste. In the loo, I read:
‘Do not put foreign matter down this toilet’
And wonder, does this mean me?
I pause – then pee.
The fire burns long into the night,
Fuelled through a hole in the wall,
(no need to let the axeman in)
For a congregation of the few,
Members of a Tactful Response Group,
Keepers of the Dark Spirit.
Sentinels take watchful care of
Poetic pearls cast like spells
Over faithful and feral alike.
No princely pash can stir us,
No Fuck! no Shit! can be allowed
To disturb this hallowed hush.
Finally Queen Vera retires
To sleep, perchance to dream
Of lost Scottish castles, while
Downstairs, it’s beer and gossip for the
Caretakers on night watch (all’s well)
Holding the fort in this timeless land.