I’ll tell you what happened, shall I? You lost
your ring at King’s Cross, in the canal. A fish
found it and swallowed it, I caught the fish
and now it’s time to cook and eat it, but you
won’t believe me when I show you the answer.
Man on the train has lost his cherry from off of
his Belgian bun from Gregg’s, it’s on the floor
and he hasn’t even noticed. I’m not going to
tell him, “Ha ha, you’ve lost your cherry”: what
would be the point, as he can’t eat it anyway.
I have nothing to tell you, now you’ve lost your
way, no special treat, nothing you could swallow:
nothing will come of nothing and why would it,
it’s never a good time for truth now the gilt
is off the gingerbread, no one wants to know.
We get to King’s Cross another time: I could tell you
where you need to go, but it’s all so confusing
and you can’t get anywhere without having to
ask all over again, though you’ll be too proud
to ask, like most lost men, who won’t be told.
Your lost cherries and unvarnished gingerbread might
have been the answer you didn’t want to ask for
but you want the answer you want, not to be shown
what’s the truth. You dropped your ring and now
the fish can’t even be bothered to swallow it for you.
The canal at King’s Cross