Once upon a peculiar time,
above New York and its glittering wealth,
there loomed a lucky-numbered tower
that could fall over all by itself.
Nobody knew if it was the hand
of God or Allah or Jehovah.
No cranes or trains or aeroplanes
crashed into it. It just fell over.
A bit further down this peculiar time,
on Oxfordshire’s blossoming meadows of plenty,
there whispered a doctor in hesitant tones
that the tyrant of Babylon’s hand was empty.
There definitely wasn’t a government agent
hiding behind the sofa.
No politicians crashed into him,
he just fell over.
