Miss Muckraker whistles for Scotch
transit circle of the Selecta Arms
(a sleepwalker irked by a chloroformed moon).
She sucks the glass watertight,
pressing on a crack-legged chair.

When Snatch Squad trot in,
she reserves her bushel
with a hardback, a viable tool
for being spied not seeing.

Tomorrow’s tale-tell’s
a well-run sabotage,
barring out that all-important colourless chap.


From the Spooks poems