That when you could be usefully

putting another stain on your waistcoat

           or staring into the toilet bowl

to ponder the true meaning of

           Armitage Shanks; you’re here

talking to a guy from

           nineteen seventy,

whose last great idea

           was a stolen transistor radio

through which he used to receive

           Jimmy Savile’s voice. 
He doesn’t want

           fluoride in his elderflower tea, insists

on sharing with the whole room

           the smell of things that died

in his prisoner-of-conscience beard

           the night police special branch ran

not enough electricity through

           his balls. Into our nostrils 
the essence of the Yogi’s last nappy;

           as you raise the drink you bought

with an Arts Council grant

           meant for something else

to those like him

           who drank the Kool-Aid

but didn’t have the decency to

           die.