‘We quiver here for fear, a badly shaven lot,
Leaderless and clear in fractured polyglot,
Take a very long line and see it moves apace;
It is the time of fishes, ticket punched another place.
Sun-treader, comb your morning hair, sweep this private road in anger.
What of other highways? Go tell King Mwanga,
The royal house is empty, the servants all abroad,
Scattered to the corners, a tuneless monochord.
Their hearts a lute for strumming, diseased the ebb and flow,
Sad cypress and unfulfilled watercress,
What do you know?’