I’ve driven to Liverpool once again
I’ve driven myself hard, perhaps too hard
They said it was too dangerous: you’ll end
Up in a tangled mess of blood and lard
Of glass and metal, the side of the road
An exhibition of the dead, for free
Fresh meat, a treat; fleet-foot from far and wide
See the remains of Andy N and me!
The rest of the Fiesta smashed on the
Liverpudlian ice… But no, not then
Not now, but when does the dark book record
The ending paragraph of my story -
At least, that part of it that my own sense
Will perceive directly, fed by my blood?
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