Are the children the sweetshop owners cheated
Crunch, go their brittle candies, crack!
On teeth, dividing into splinters: ching!
Let the money changers hands serve out
Their clever weighing skills

Inimitably working, amiably, conjuring coins:
Fair washday words, dumb-show in slight gambols
Which elevate the dance of twisted knowing
Incontinent of step, a turn possessed, they crow
Throwing up croooked shadow shapes flickering the walls;
Content to advise
With face of pouting promise
King-size conceits, all shown in mirrors

Gob-stoppers clog like rocks
Heart’s troubled mouths, lassoed by tickled taste
Placed hints
And flavours of bad breath; these cheesy Willy Wonka guys
All offer us their Golden Ticket scam,
Last chance- or lotto’s lost to everybody
We hit head-on and crash the instant buffers
Get smashed by that delight in high despite
Now paled, occluded, yet
Was there all the time

This orgy feast is realism realised, hardened, browned;
What’s lost is gone on fancied hankerings
Wheels within wheels turn spilling out of air
Some several sets of raunchy Russian Dolls; whose figurines
Obscure the steady spoils a little closer home;
That sacred round
Of mom’s best all-American apple-pie (cooked, ready-sliced,
Carved-up; and hanged be truth) much mardi-gras
Make-merry: Alack! Ohone!
And into the lowest circle are we now to go


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