If the wurlitzer played a moan alone by Rigsby,
If latitudes could be plucked by a pilotless jet plane,
If weddings and funerals were served up together on stormy Mondays,
If bucolic windmill sighs and slow mo recordings of buds opening were
 last night of the prom show stoppers,
If memories of drifting fingers through ink black water and watching mesmeric phosphorescent trails could
 be revived like a favourite play,

Then virtue would lay an unbreakable egg,
Then earth beams and girders would untangle and sing,
Then buff musclebound worms would fight the blackbird's beak,
Then wigwams and teepees would fly in to restore order,
Then Robert Maxwell would sip soup aboard a floating mirage.
Or perhaps a robin's nest would host Felicity Kendall's giggle.