HOMAGE TO JAMES JOYCE
E'm gon'na widdle 'n sing ta ya' then woodle woo with you,
'n let it sway til not one crock-eyed, pudding-mouthed
Belfast mutation who claims to be a poet –
& certainly no foolish lizard skinned grammatician
who dials my ero-injection with the wrong number,
then presses the entry buxsom bottom button to maximum throttle,
overloading semantic processing systems and memory chips with hackneyed phrases
and electro currents. Hey! The streets of Dublin are alive!
And robust canticlers still thrive! So keep your six-pence in yaer pants 'n re-joyce!
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