GreyHound

The baggage grows pound per pound.

Each screech is a uniformed routine sound

Of every lie and rotton ploy unwound.

But I, the unburned, walk with a head of a greyhound

I alone can walk with limbs unbound.

Dry cleansed of the fire that surrounds

I've repented, my heart hold no doubts,

Now I clown around when I hang around

with the Underground.