A wiry gaggle of limbs
On a hatstand,
Atop which a weathered gargoyle rests,
With lank golden strands adorning as if a crest.
As it approaches, manifest –
Rattling from within,
A creaky attempt at speech –
Yellow claws so frail shakily grab thin air.
Three on one paw retract
To leave just the primary pair.
Accepting the white-and-gold cancer stick
Such gratitude wells
Somewhere in open coal pits.
A sign of the high turret of cognizance
From which the freak has fallen?
Recognition then bites:
We used to call him
F******.