by Sycamore Smith

Eliza buys a thimble
Every time she goes to town
She's mounted her collection
On the fingers she has found
The olive jeeps are hauling heaps
Of guns & drums & gew-gaws
As I pick my teeth
With a splinter from the true cross
If yer lost then you must be converted
If yer at peace then you must be perverted
Either way, you'll perish
And be sent to Hell by carriage,
Flayed until demented
And then sent away again
To haunt the craters
And the trenches of Bastogne
The winter wind is whistling
Around Eliza fair
The lice have left her head
To find a warmer patch of hair
The shutters are shaking
And the fire is dwindling--
It's time we used
Those thimble stands for kindling
Eliza's in the pantry
With her lamprey trapped in amber
Her onanistic moaning
Has a rather jarring timbre
I'm beneath the covers
In my Sunday best attire
And I'm sucking on a
Peacemaker pacifier