Sheaves of blubber droop
over his bowtie. His monocle drops
into the Go Kat and he laps it clean.
I have watched him orbiting his anuerism
for years now; he arrives in London
at the start of each season,
more corpulent than before,
furious at the world
for what he has become:
a brain trapped inside a huge pillow,
drowning on dry land,
riding his litter,
sneezing gravy.
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