By Gerhard Stroebel-Kampf

Eagles spread their wings across the foaming tumblers,

Orange tree, the gateway to ritzy garters of your forgotten Mitred gates,

Of alabaster sound, a proud and sordid pinnacle atop the golden fleece,

From which I plucked a sacred bunch of grapes,

And the sun, a salmon's leap away from the cock upon the hill,

Whose call woke the revellers from their lichened vaults.

Of paradise and sawdust floors,

Of golden dragons, slowboats and antelopes,

Was our reunion of separate entities.

Strands of tobacco twisted with paper,

Singing ukelele man of cravat fame,

You serenaded with your na, na, nar.

The answer never came.