Glory be to Man for tacky things—
For black and white splodges on a
concrete cow;
For wind-up plastic flippers upon toys that
swim;
U.V. reclining sun-beds; Kentucky ‘Hot Wings’;
Shelves piled and packed where shoppers plough;
And all trades, their prices cut and trim.
All things crappy, copied, cheap, strange;
Whatever will show a profit (God knows how?)
Then break, bend; rust, rot; dent, dim;
He festers-forth whose grot is past change:
Fuck him.
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