Dexter likes to contemplate the vast
courageous notings of the watchman,
with his gentle stub-ble-scratchy brows,
the scent of sweaty lynx seeps through
the circles of imperial liquor.
Dinner, dinner-soupy spoons
and lumps of generic custard stuck to crust
in every side and surface there's the waiter boy!
What ho, his master speaks in cheqeured tongues,
with tongs of steel in hand he goes,
towards the bathroom door.
Buttereyed staff and droopyheaded ladels,
hand in hand they go dripping filthy curds.
Softest jelly/jello whichever serves best who cares.
To be Frank, or somebody similar,
a forked tongue slithers through each room-
searching for a victim.
This other child-in whitish pink.
Into its arm the viper sinks its lazy teeth,
to hug the pin-sized veins with ivory love.
Fie fie, it cries, the child dies of poison.
Which country? Not England.
For surely, this isn't the proper thing?
So Dexter closes his hotel due to lack of staff.
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