The silent man in mocha brown Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes; The waiter brings in oranges Banana figs and hothouse grapes . . . --T.S. Eliot Duck soup, watercress, clotted cream Slide down my dappled chin: P.Q.., What is it like To be so blond and white? -- You appear to flinch As molecular duck Assaults your lip: Choo choo. Chew! Dinner on the train; Duck fragments Fly in bi-labial musings: I wonder why, P.Q., You too Must die, battled for Amongst the worm. Train glides by the dark gorse Flashing lights and teeth. Honking for the ginger-goose Your loose hair twines Maple-gold among the gravies. P.Q., Did I ever suckle your turnip-nipple? My pig-fingers poke In portly interrogatory Train lurches lunch. Stomachs bloated and bibbed Rumble to the tumbling wheels; Your silent answer: Eyes devouring the last flesh From the cold grey bone. I watch your greased lips Recall sow throat newly slit; I am relieved You reveal some teeth. Then you seem To sleep, to dream; The teeth again eclipse with lip, Duck and cress tucked up inside Your duckly fattened hip. The longtime train through doze Rolls on And as it rolls, I offer song: O who O who O could deny The gently seasoned porky-pie? I had a hog named Bubba-Sue Mother called him John, Buried in the gleaming spring Sing hey! worms, sing ding dong! And gnaw the flesh from piggy's bones Or chew the tearless eye... So fork and knife Dismember life To feed the porky-pie; Sing rum-dum-the-rucky-duck! And wink the gladdened eye, It matters not If worm or rot Consume the porky-pie! Strange train music Strains the song-tormented ear; But not you, P.Q.: When you sleep you sleep alone Troubled not by pain or poem.