On Edge

‘Don’t burn for it,’
Said Mr Snood.
‘You yearn for it
And it’s no good.’

The T is square,
The X is rayed,
And I don’t care
What William made.

The winds of change
Blow hot and cold.
Beyond their range
The nights unfold.

The long-lost days
Of summer spent
In little ways
Of discontent.

But Mr Snood
Can turn a trick
That’s nice or lewd.
Or cold. Or quick.

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