Carve

If and perhaps and maybe and soon.
These are the songs of the rabbit on the moon.
Threshing out.
With his pestle and mortar.
Patent medicines.
For the merchants quarter.

Make sure that you hold tight your slip.
When the bingo caller comes burst your lip.
Calling out.
In slurred Polari.
Ruinous glyphs.
That tell your story.

None on their deathbed ever sang.
About the fruit that they let hang
Black and sweet.
So goes the rhyme.
We’re the victims of nothing.
If, perhaps, not time.