(an improvisation)
 

just as i was going 
to revise another
piece with this

title the barman
little angel as every
one calls him put

a small plate of garlic
cloves before me
which somehow

managed to dis
tract me from
my self-imposed

task of curing
the disease of
a few having 

power over most 
others so what is 
one to do? become

a Cain;  the kind
you find a use
for every now

& again? or
simply resign
have a beer

& then approach
some cool woman
& say that

although i 
may taste of
garlic i don’t

claim to cure
all manner of
diseases only 

a few harmless
ones but i 
do make a mean

one-liner at times
when i feel
like it &

have the necessary
ingredients
like maybe a

banshee crooning
in a field on an
autumn night
 
 

Note:

The italicized lines come from the song 
Whites of Their Eyes by New Model Army