Left wing, savoir faire Ageing flicks of my thin brown hair Like an elegy, soaking me, Drenched in the language of social mobility, But I don't seem to mind The gruesome link between People and time; It's an enemy, telling me The wheels of profit Are circling in the opposite. Life don't animate - Just creeps up on you slowly. Surely, holy water Flows as normal water does? In Little Italy, I re-adhere. Sojourn in my guilt, Wrestle words as the apostrophes wilt, Let the elegiac question why Accidents happen or the well will dry. So some come, kill me quick, Tie me down To an anodyne drip, To the will of god, And the people with sticks; For filled with the shrill They show much better that Life don't animate - Just creeps up on you slowly. Surely, holy water Flows as normal water does? In Little Italy, I re-adhere. When the steeple cries, There's a martyr For every pause. When a dozen die, It's a starter for ten To the men Who proselytise that A life isn't owned but atoned. They solidify, and in time become Blackened and martyred. Life don't animate - Just creeps up on you slowly. Surely, holy water Flows as normal water does? In Little Italy, I re-adhere.