The Bubble

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.

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