Dull-slow-dull

And mind-numbingly circuitous;

This trip-wire, trap-doored, prat-fall

Journey from the flea-pit deeps,

Where the cold dry winds blow.

Every delaying hold up is

Another new, last-legs rotunda circus,

Tattered-flag finery and faded big-top

Under which failing, falling, flailing clowns

Try vainly to disguise the unholy, unnatural stink

Of humiliated animals, onlookers and voyagers.

Beasts all; we queue, hoping for so much

On days like these, fearful of

Missing, of falling faster behind,

Missing that one important sign

That will send us to glory.

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