In a world of claws and fangs, where quantum theory refuses to recognize corn laws, wise monkey clones slowly learn, If we can't eat it, it's not fruit. Prudery and censorship aside, sea poems by English landlords make it explicitly clear, while ducks are wonderful, If we can't eat it, it's not fruit. It's all beer, gin, & fun, until scribbling communists must separate flotsam, from jetsam, from brittle steel. Out towards Ottawa, spelled out in the alphabet of trees, sung in the language of the shrubs-- O'Brien is a corrupt treacherous punk still If we can't eat it, it's not fruit.
Pub. May 1998 DRC