Business Centre


Business centre. The television is
  on. Somebody has a headache.
Aircraft leaflet the area,
  Margaret Thatcher is on the radio.
A bank manager addresses rotary.
  Someone sets fire to the kitchen.
Sit then perfectly still and be


John, or Nanki-Poo
  dedicated to that certainty which
disappeared with miners and
  Handel’s requiem in Old Trafalgar
at Christmas.
  Rise then Metroland although
the warmth is that
  of unkept places at Euston.


Property values rise steadily
  in the background: foreign investors
at Luton-sur-Mer.
The Greek was dejected that day
  and went the whole hog at auction
in memory of his mother, an
  illegitimate Mitford.


Blessings on the Harvest Festival.
  I shall contribute an onion.
Or sponsor the cricket team to
  advertise my undertakings on their
flannels in deo excelsis so
  something is tasteful in
suburbia. Where I Am.


Hitler and Stalin are the names
  of the dogs that roam our streets
after dark. Purchased from
  a friend, whose sister has a
brother whose sister is the
  receptionist at the business
centre in England.

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