Streetlamps and Wave-tips

                                In the header a bastard burning streetlamp, a toxygene

                                Splendidly caparisoned and in splendid isolation—how fond are we in our isolation—

                                Accommodating insulting siren blasts, wakeful or taking forty winks

 

                                Footnoted on the foamy bow’s wave-tipped tactic, a shuffle

                                Resuming a vocation on a godawful prospect—how fond are we of prospecting—

                                In quotidian dedication off we trot or drag, it doesn’t matter

 

                                So scream, rampage and burn the streets

                                Tomorrow does not come around every day