He drank himself bronze: thirteen bucketfuls

of old pennies, fused and plunked onto a pedestal,

silenced of his utterances.

Love or loathe, you can't ignore

this metal mute, cameras

snap like dogs at him,

gulls and pigeons splat him,

he's as cold as the November hi sits in,

come June he'll beg for a cool lager.

Moon-eyed, he glints on crowds  

in and out the mall; if you’re low neck-lined,  

long-legged and short-skirted, look up,   

see his moons beam.

As with his verse, he lures and stirs and foxes.  

He’s the Uplands man, who shipped imself  

to a plenteous land, and watched from the aft  

his orchard dwindle to a pip;

he took with him the flesh of its fruit     

and choked on it.