``Do you still see me even here?''

(The silver cord lies on the ground.)

``And so I'm dead'', the young man said --- over the hill

(not a wish away).

My friends (as one) all stand aligned although their taxis came

too late.

There was a rush along the Fulham Road.

There was a hush in the Passion Play.

Such a sense of glowing in the aftermath ripe with rich attainments

all imagined sad misdeeds in disarray the sore thumb screams aloud,

echoing out of the Passion Play.

All the old familiar choruses come crowding in a different key:

Melodies decaying in sweet dissonance.

There was a rush along the Fulham Road into the Ever-passion Play.

And who comes here to wish me well?

A sweetly-scented angel fell.

She laid her head upon my disbelief and bathed me with her ever-smile.

And with a howl across the sand I go escorted by a band of gentlemen

in leather bound -- NO-ONE (but someone to be found).

All along the icy wastes there are faces smiling in the gloom.

Roll up roll down,

Feeling unwound? -- step into the viewing room.

The cameras were all around.

We've got you taped -- you're in the play.

Here's your I.D.

(Ideal for identifying one and all.)

Invest your life in the memory bank -- ours the interest and we

thank you.

The ice-cream lady wet her drawers, to see you in the passion play.

take the prize for instant pleasure

captain of the cricket team

public speaking in all weathers

a knighthood from a queen.

All your best friends' telephones never cooled from the heat of your hand.

There's a line in a front-page story 13 horses that also-ran.

Climb in your old umbrella.

Does it have a nasty tear in the dome?

But the rain only gets in sometimes a