A small time hustler, a princeling,

he is on the make and mooching

down along the hedgerows.

 

His head in the cloud

of each moment’s business,

the world is lying at his feet.

 

On a whim, his thoughts

a-scamper, he sets off

on a pointless dash

 

from nowhere to nowhere;

then remembers flight.

Climbing raucously

 

above the stubble,

his song’s in the key

of twisting metal.

 

And when the time is right

his sex is functional.

It’s all him, his pageantry –

 

for any drab will do.

Inheriting robes

from distant Asia

 

does he dream of lives

he’s bred for, or guess

how it will end

 

here at the roadside

– cast off by

a casual bumper,

 

his gauds in disarray,

his dark flesh ripening

beneath a perfect sky?