by Nick Gisburne
For clockwork in a crisis, I’m your man.
I’ll have you tooled and ticking, good as new.
But, pound a prickly poet with a pan!
I’ve never seen a specimen like you.
Two chimneys, chuffing seven shades of smog.
Chaotic copper cobwebs, ten abreast.
Not one, no, not a single spinning cog
Would pass a basic locomotive test.
No logic tells me how your movement makes
Its tortuous, excruciating screams.
Unstable pistons. Shoddy, smoking brakes.
A mix of mad, mechanical extremes.
If anyone can mend your mess, it’s me.
But first, a pressing problem. Where’s your key?
