My morning glory, Has
a Lord attitude, My morning story, Oxford is your patibulum, In Paris I danced
the last tango, In Liverpool I sang beyond the grave, Eternal strawberry fields,
Eternal surreal gave me birth, At the gates of our last dwelling-places, Wilde,
Keats, And Yeats are yours, At the windows of narrated art, Woolf, Lessing, And
Austen are mine, My aureole-like morning, Moss gathered in honey water, Does not
gather moss on a rolling stone, My spectrum rises to the sky, In Prague my heart
is Rilkean, In Grangemouth a Cocteau twin, Unparalled voice of Joycean verse,
Unparalled flavor of Bordeaux wine, In the room of the first prayer to
knowledge, I hope I die before I get too old, In the last portion of my
existence, I hope I fade away before I die, My spectral morning, This state
machine over your helpless beauty, Dies during an out-of-the-body flight, My
glory is on the ground with no surprises, In America my pride is black, In
Ireland it speaks in the name of love, The two of us in the street without a
name and a gutter, The two of us with no one and no fear, I still smile in a
troubled night, The sun must go down to rise again, I still float downstream into paradise in
a sweet dream, The moon must spin to balance the earth, My glorious mornings,
Mornings to where the spectra point, The future was a question made by curious
voices, The future is what they made of it yesterday.
