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.