The little poem is just born
born to the sea like a U-Boat
with endless days of frigging around
The little poem will not change your life
it will not make pancakes, wash its hands,
or torpedo your Liberty Ship
The little poem is born and dies
on the same day, in the same reading
sent out to scour the sea of Albion,
it gets one star, then two.
The little poem froths in old age,
quickly acquired, described,
the enemy descends from the air
It couldn’t have hurt much
when they cut its throat.