Spit in your eye.
Tear you apart,
of falling to bits.
Words to the wise.
Swede, Dutch, Fin?
Yid? Vos mach du?
Ratchet-up the observations,
Up the ante
Moment by moment, monitor my every move.
I dance on occasion.
I am the Dervish.
A wall of sound, of movement, or disorganisation.
Clichés, one after the other,
I can’t think what to do or how to do it, you surely know better,
You are the one with the badge.
I am the one
wrinkled and grey, singing old-time songs,
Confident from my time spent on the line.