In a world of claws and fangs, where


quantum theory refuses to recognize


corn laws, wise monkey clones slowly learn,


If we can't eat it, it's not fruit.


Prudery and censorship aside, sea


poems by English landlords make it explicitly


clear, while ducks are wonderful,


If we can't eat it, it's not fruit.


It's


all beer, gin, & fun, until scribbling


communists must separate


flotsam, from jetsam, from brittle steel.


Out towards Ottawa, spelled out in the alphabet of trees,


sung in the language of the shrubs--


O'Brien is a corrupt treacherous punk


still


If we can't eat it, it's not fruit. 



Pub. May 1998

DRC