Jerusalem

While all his pockets boil with vicious teeth,

Though some of his confederates are worse.

There’s one whose features crawl about his face,

Mouth above nose, ears where his eyes should be.

Another, a raw-knuckled harridan

With smile as threatening as any man

Sways to an air that falls conspicuously

Flat in that strangely dead acoustic space,

Less tune than tuning up. Den cranes and strives

To find its source, soon managing to spot

The revenant musicians, bass, horn, drums,

Who twiddle amplifier knobs or thumbs

Disconsolately, yet perk up as what

Appears to be their ringleader arrives

To ragged cheers, a rotund titan who

With belly, beret, beard and steely eyes

Rolls through the reeling wraiths. Den gets to view

Him, if but briefly, noticing that two

Ghost-children shelter at his oak-thick thighs,

One memorably fair though lacking hue

And wrapped in tartan bathrobe. Den calls out

But draws the mob’s attention with his cry

That grind their boot-heels on his wooden crown,

Jesting as they attempt to tread him down,

His careful lyric ear affronted by

Their hateful voices everywhere about.

“He’s formed wi’ woods like Cloggy Elliott’s leg,

Or malkin, frightenin’ stargugs on a farm.”

Fat Kenny, in his wooden birthday suit,

Is held down by the leering female brute