A horse-drawn rocket
climbs the wooden hill:
behind it two or three friends
are sharing their tobacco: their hats
are beautiful like small pieces of
coal on their heads
fostering goodwill.
I’m standing in this hole, see,
and I’m going to holler out:
“Good riddance to bad rubbish!”
and “I’m sorry if I was a menace!”
“Howdy doody, milkman travail!”
“So long buoys and grills!
Like a harp
burning on an island
nobody knows about.