The nice black man
Sits in his car
On Twyckenham
Gazing at the clear,
Amber March sunset
And on his face is neither victory
Nor defeat
Nor any type of physiognomy
Reflecting a self-concept
But solely absorption of the scene
Which to me looks like a lie
But to him is a pile of
Lemon meringue pies
Being flanked by downy
Sheep with lutes
And that my friends is truth