It is not the rubbish-heaped banks of this Essex river,
It is not the exhaust-filled air, nor North Hill Barbers,
Which makes me pour out my misery in verse, no,
The problem, Atkins, is not merely aesthetic.
It is the constant struggle against boredom here,
Nailed like Prometheus to Clingoe Hill,
And this futile hope which holds me here
As Capitalism unrolls its business plans on campus.
And so, Atkins, if Ovid in exile bought Teach Yourself Getic, since
Nobody could figure out what he was saying, who can blame me
For abandoning the avant-garde in Colchester?
Nobody, for the delights of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry are,
In this Essex backwater, understood by none.