Shakespeare Is Dust

Sharp-shouldered bloke at the end
keeps elbowing people out the way -
n I've been waitin for an hour now -
tapping a tenner on the bar.
Him and his dusty shoulders
cleaner fish sucking flakes,
academics clearing and plastering
the outer flying balustrades,
clumps of cliches at his feet.
Bugger. He's given me a clowns fucking
words and then minted coins for a Crimson Buccaneer
to thief gold, those bright red
double-deckers over Tower Bridge
to HP sauce, and a hospitality tent to boot.
You can hear them, fired by the sunrise:
the drunken twist of paper dancers
the chapatis spin around the rim
beneath bloody skies.
Divest the chattels of yr past,
break the debentures of yr future.
Burning Shakespeare will not be enough.