The Bubble
I alter my accent when I talk.
Received pronunciation
demolishes all signs of me.
Nobody, NOBODY
can prick my map.
I alter my accent when I talk
to old men in poppy pyjamas,
patched up with afternoon television.
I drink black, red, and gold
from styrofoam straws,
sucking hard to loosen the block-ck-ck-age.
I think of sportsmen, composers, poets, and painters,
philosophers, actors, scientists, and writers,
but I alter my accent when I talk.