Whose Master Is Sawicki

There … It was dark. England, set down, and stretched out for miles, and days without end Far afield her quondam spirit, But forever sprawling Beneath Discouraging clouds with unbroken tears that washed out … cricket games and pigeon stool, bleeding into drinking … Watered-down whiskey from pubs following the concrete pavements Victorian structures, and verdant meadows that sleep … to the lullabies of Jackdaws and humming engines I often wonder, how one can speak without both lips in motion; Are they half ventriloquists? I need no retort; I’m just playing George on this one When Auntie returned …, from London, with her brain swimming in high tide, they were quick to blame the clock, but Manchester is the author of this charlatan The tale is that those who trust Big Ben for time Will in fact misplace their minds How true a case is he? Old England will agree he is special Rum will whisper tall stories, same with Cognac and Vodka, but aren’t there days when we are restrained What is Sawicki, but a train, blowing wet whistle? How straight can one walk with neurons bathing in ethanol? In days past, dictionaries were scarfed-up; men were … Men were quick and questioning Where is evolution; like monkeys we mimic? John Fletcher I know, and C. Marlowe Much of William Blake and Carew I recalled Arnold, the Brownings, and Dowson, So much for Killigrew, old Abercrombie, Crowley, and young Liam Wilkinson Who in God’s name is Sawicki, Whose “master” is he?