Jack Robinson
By all that's crikey, he could shift.
He took the stairs in fives, batted faster
than an eyelid with an explosive tic,
belted his capacious waist
with fusewire, ran up steep
bills with the kind of reckless energy
dispensed by a careless switch of clothes,
took forty winks for the price of three,
beat the bullet he bit on
by a cool lip, and met the rat in the drainpipe
on the way down, pocketed the shit
off the shovel, and all this before
you had half a chance to say