old boys town


piping hot says the waiter glumly you must think me daft
o credulous ones look at all this disrepair this ruin
now your glad rags cost you eight bob and a tanner
etc. you turn off the telly and sit like a Mallarmé poem


prestigious are the fears and if any man comes with a sign
to paper it is risen old Atlantis tide and time forgot
but not old credit and the wherewithal to back it up
from such as sees it like and likes what it sees