In the Twenty-Minute Harbourway
we wondered up Grounds of Tiredness:
whether Mood of Shitweather cast, or
Body boiled of homemade pushup milken Sourstuff,
or perhaps we formiss your Tale and
Afterwish of better Middlenight.

Perhaps the truer Ground is Question
of why the former Hammerborough called our Name
and forspoke that we should leave;
yet the only Choice is one of stay’n within the Land
—lengthier of Way and shorter of Paperworks—.
We called for Help and many brought us the Answer:
“let’s wish good Follows upon your Endeavors”.
The Quest now is to or blive
or move in Bears. Gold’s being not it all.

There is a Notice that we keep:
we had Sleep when you don’t sleep.
We stole a Bag of Goldenbears and Goldenberries.

It happens that we feel less fair,
or less fair in Trade: like the Time
when Weeds is all that’s left behind.
Once came ye Lieberblomen:
“we find you like, Bramblebleeds”.
You knew of Headstead Confederations’,
and asked for Elderstick and we replied.
“Such is our Time, Misappointment”.

Hamburg