clinging to an aeroplane's under-carriage
crowing: 'Look at me! I'm America's energy policy!'
oil spilling from my wind-chapped lips
like Vimto - 'An anagram of vomit!' I'll add,
to no one.
Once there, I will unveil a car
powered entirely by smug irony.
Shoreditch will instantly thrum with a chorus
happy of motors; skeptics and wearied protestors
alike will pootle around emitting nothing
but a colourless mist of eggy flatus.
I'll travel home by train.
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