As one’s arms run around the girl’s waist like crooked, decayed Iron Age scissors in the display cases of museums, one’s legs and back wish to scatter in the world, to dance at one and the same time in a thousand widely separated places.
Imagine being /
Master of the Stool, having to wipe /
that gargantuan arse.../
...Think of that face//
glancing towards Tower Green, as Anne /
prepared to bare her innocent neck, /
then turning away, to go and marry Jane.