Issue 3, Autumn 1953
You are not random picked. I tell you you
Are much like the one I knew before, that died.
Shall we sit down, and drink and munch a while
—I want to see if you will really do:
If not we’ll get it over now outside.
Wary I wait for one unusual smile.
I never felt this restiveness with her:
I lay calm wanting nothing but what I had.
And now I stand each night outside the Mills
For girls, to shift them to the cinema
Or dance hall… Like the world, I’ve gone to bad.
A deadly world: for once I like, it kills.