He appears from the swirling mists,
a cowled figure punting through grey waters,
and beside him, the poet John Betjeman,
writing something jauntily accessible about it all
on a small slate.
His chalk has worn down to a tiny nub
he must clench between thumb
and all four fingers, scratching words
onto the tile
while Charon peers over his shoulder,
affecting a pallid sneer,
muttering something in his fetid tomb-breath
about Pound
and laziness.
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