Sir John floats over the rose bed,
he cannot speak, his lips are sealed
with Ealing air; nonetheless,
when I really look I see him
move towards the pond; he frowns
and beckons me towards his home.
In the hall,
he points to walls scrawled
with words full of bile.
The air vibrates. I feel his howl.
What have I done?
My son must really hate me!
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