David Pike

Plenty of first stones From amongst the mint juleps Being cast here in sweet home Where they know not what they do For women In a confederacy of righteousness That forms a new slavery To make you wish You weren’t in a land of cotton.

Walking Up The Streets Of Vicksburg

Ovingham was pop’s favourite stretch of the river But where we stopped, I don’t know, I only remember the road and the trees on both sides of the river; A place where old Sundays go. Lucidly, I dreamed me And because expansiveness was easy, Was on top of the steps of my exuberance; Spoiled for choice of familiar scenery. And I pictured it: Walking up the streets of Vicksburg, In receipt from the start of one onlooker’s appraisal; Dressed to kill for some occasion.

Cartagena

You might as well be the man from Cartagena In Colombia or Spain For all the good it will do Because of I spy in black That’s not Conrad Veidt in the room.

Down which mystic wynd shall you meet? You in your swashbuckling Carthaginian style; And what would you comment first upon there? Smartness? Fair beauty? Or the aimlessness you felt in the rain on the street?

Julius And Augustus On The Coast Of Northumberland

That week soon passed at the screen of rhododendrons Above the revetment that lent a grease of age Where the emperor’s namesake presented the attire With the green most often For lapelled insects And would not have you counting down the days To the final stroll home By the allotments with high hedges But would have you stop on the sloping asphalt Before the park gates in his light nights To say goodbye until tomorrow.